


Sherlock Holmes and the Immortal

by crazycolorist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Immortals, Intrigue, Monsters, Romance, Science Fiction, Sexual Frustration, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 36,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazycolorist/pseuds/crazycolorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a beautiful woman rises from the dead, Sherlock is fascinated to say the least. With a mysterious immortal on his hands and with danger coming from all sides Sherlock must unravel her history and discover the secrets of eternal life before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The body was cold. Not frozen by any means, but close. It had an internal temperature of 8.3 °C, which was odd for several reasons. One being that it was summer and the body had been discovered outside in full sun. Another was that despite the obvious fact that it had been dead for some time, there was no livor mortis. This body had been dead for what appeared to be around seven hours. Normally, blood pools leaving a dark bruise-like discoloration in the heavier parts of the body facing down: buttocks, thighs or back. No bruising could imply that there was no blood. But besides being dead, there were no wounds or signs pointing to a cause of death, let alone a full exsanguination. Not even that it had died from the kind of exposure that would ensure an extended state of frigidity.

Sherlock leaned over the body, his nostrils flaring indelicately over the icy, blue tinged mouth. No scent of the more obvious poisons. In fact… He sniffed again more deeply, no scent at all. He pulled back, the tiniest touch of confusion in his eyes. There's always some smell. Mints, the last meal they ate, a distinct lack of oral hygiene. There was nothing.

"Milley," Sherlock said.

"Molly," she corrected.

"Yes, Molly," he said, completely distracted and not at all interested. "I need a few moments alone with the body."

"Five years," Molly said.

"What?" Sherlock asked, finally looking up at the flustered pathologist. Her narrow lips were twisted in agitation.

"We've worked together five years and you still can't get my name right?"

"Oh for God's sake, Molly, I was only joking. I really do need a few moments alone. Please."

"You never joke," she said gathering up a stack of paperwork, her every movement radiating hurt feelings. In other words, business as usual.

Sherlock sighed, the only acknowledgement that he'd noticed her frustration. The swinging door wheezed shut, defying her attempts to slam it.

He wasn't as oblivious as people believed. His face was austere, his posture haughty from a posh boarding school upbringing that brooked no slumping. He could also be a cold unfeeling bastard especially if he thought someone believed him to be a cold unfeeling bastard. Doesn't do to disappoint and a reputation as a sociopath savant meant that people gave him space. Which gave him room to think. Which was all he ever wanted.

Sherlock adjusted the tight band of his surgical glove, his eyes focusing on the body's mouth. He leaned over its face, gently prying open the lips. Cold bit through the thin latex as they moved with a soft pliancy that, due to rigor mortis, should've felt completely different. Was his estimation of the time of death wrong? Unlikely. It was just one more thing to add to his mental list of idiosyncrasies. Not unique, surely. No individual body was unique. In death the body follows a certain pattern of decay. X follows Y to an inevitable conclusion excepting exciting poisons, cleverly hidden bombs, and not at all spontaneous combustion. Or whatever this was.

He craned his neck to check the gums. Healthy. He checked the state of the teeth which were perfect in a normal, non-veneered way. They had taken care of that at least. He glimpsed down the length of the body. The nipples were a barely discernible blush shade against the paleness of her skin, now marred by the "Y" incision Molly had made and stitched up earlier. Molly's autopsy results were the same as Sherlock's; no known cause of death and every indication of perfect health. Minus the frozen and dead part.

He tried to open the mouth and the jaw refused to budge. It was much more resistant than it should have been; almost as though it were clenched tight against him.

Frowning, Sherlock stepped back away from the body, his eyes running over her clear, cold skin. This was all wrong. Years of investigative work had honed an innate ability into razor sharpness. For him to have drawn a blank meant that something was astonishingly, fundamentally, _wrong_.

He was becoming frustrated. When that happened, sometimes the cadaver would be subjected to experiments that would send anyone else straight to jail or an asylum. He'd pushed his limits once by using a sledgehammer and electric drill to prove a cause of death. He was saved because, of course, he had been right. The body had been cremated. What remained anyway.

Eschewing the hammer, Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone.

_Need you for cause of death ID- SH_ , he typed.

"Maybe just a little hammer," he muttered, turning to walk to the cabinet holding the worst of his implements from prying eyes.

As he opened the door, he heard a painful gasp from lungs long since emptied of oxygen. He spun to see the body sitting straight up.

"Oh no!" she gasped, her bosom heaving in reanimation. She looked down, her dark eyes panicked at the vulgar stitching across her body.

Sherlock, who hadn't moved in the three or so seconds since she rose from the dead, decided neither to faint nor panic.

Hands held up in a sign of non-aggression, he said, "Can I help you?"

She seemed to notice him for the first time and tried to cover her nudity. Bashful, apparently. Funny, since she was dead. To him that would've been far more humiliating.

"Where am I?" she asked. Her voice sounded ragged, deeper than it would be under different circumstances he imagined. Having one's lungs removed and weighed would do that. A small part of his mind gibbered at this thought. All of her organs had been removed, categorized, and returned to their cavity. Her cavity. Her very dead and dissected cavity. _Do not faint!_

He blinked slowly, gathering himself. He pushed away the madness of seeing what was plainly impossible. "You're in Saint Bartholomew's hospital," he replied.

She looked around, her dark hair sliding over blue-tinted shoulders. "This doesn't look like a hospital," she said. "Who are you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," his voice calm to reassure her. When he spoke it was more of a purr, baritone and utterly without his knowledge, devastating if he had any inclination to use it for seduction. He didn't, of course, but that didn't stop it from working.

She seemed to calm as his voice had an entirely unintended effect. She looked him up and down. He looked as he always did, black slacks and dark button up dress shirt tailored within an inch of its life over a slender but strong body. His tousled dark brown hair appeared black under the harsh fluorescent lights. Sherlock's pale blue-green eyes tilted upwards, held up by cheekbones so high he looked almost alien. An overly generous mouth and nose were bordering on unattractive, but taken together and with that voice, he was magnetic.

"I'm in a morgue, ain't I," she said. "But you aren't dressed like a lab person. Mortician? You kinda look like that."

"There's been an accident," he said, one eye beginning to twitch ever so slightly.

_Accident my ass,_ he thought. _She was frozen, dead, and speaking. The only accident was that I have obviously gone insane._

"What?" she said, again.

"There was an accident. You were found in Saint James’s Park. Do you recall being there? Do you know what happened?"

Her fingers started picking at the stitches over her chest. She pulled, unraveling the uppermost knot. Sherlock, never one for a weak stomach, felt his gorge rise.

_My God, she's undoing her own stitches_. _I wonder if she'll flap open like an unlaced shoe._

"I was running."

"Jogging?"

"No, running. Away. My family they…" she trailed off. The stitching had been undone to the top of her left breast. The edges touched and began to meld into unblemished skin.

"That," he said slowly, "that is impossible." He rushed to her side. A deceased woman rising up to converse with him shook his resolve but somehow seeing dead flesh heal shattered his control. She still seemed confused and didn't notice him beside her. He watched as she tugged another stitch free, her icy skin healing its wake.

Sherlock brushed her hands away and pulled at the stitches himself. They broke with a tiny popping sound as he ripped them from her skin. His face was an inch from her navel as the last stitch slithered free.

"See something you like," she asked. Sherlock looked up. She appeared calmer now, if a little bemused. Her voice had settled as well to a more normal register. Apparently those loose lungs had rearranged themselves.

"What the hell are you," he asked, his voice bordering on panic. "You show up here half-frozen and clearly dead. You have been autopsied and the toxicology showed that your blood, what remains, was clear of any known drug or poison but was sluggish and barely existent. If you had asked me before your sudden reanimation, I'd have said that a new poison not of my knowing killed you. Introduced to you not through a needle, for there are no marks. Orally, the unnatural tightening of your jaw and lack of odor point to you ingesting the poison and it causing the muscles to seize. There are no marks on your skin; no blemishes of any sort, scars, moles, bruising to say nothing of its restorative properties. You are upright and speaking though, from all of my indications, still dead. You are not alive and yet here you sit. Why and how is that?"

"Good heavens," she said calmly, "you're a talker aren't you?" Her eyes sparkled catching the light. In their black depths, he caught a flash of blue, then green, red, orange as though holographic paper became trapped under dark ice.

He stared at her until she shrugged. "I'm not human, not anymore," she said. "The why and how are a very long story and I need to get out of here. Are there any clothes I can borrow? Possibly a jacket as well, you weren't kidding about the freezing part."


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't accept that," Sherlock said.

"Oh, well, tough luck. Whoever put me here is probably going to come back to finish the job and if you're bright, and I'm thinkin' that you are, you'll get out of here too. Ugh, God, you really did chop me open didn't you? That's disgusting."

"You are dead!" he yelled, his hard-fought control slipping once more. "You cannot be here talking to me at all. I've either gone mad or this is some ridiculous hoax. You are human there is no alternative, stop being absurd."

She grimaced as she swung her legs off of the table. She was stiff and still determined to cover what little dignity she had left. "Please, can I have a coat or a sheet or something?"

Sherlock grabbed his blazer off the back of a nearby stool and tossed it to her. She barely caught it but grinned at him thankfully as she shrugged it over her shoulders. Sherlock looked down, embarrassed by her nudity. When a body is dead they aren't naked, just meat. Something about a pulse makes things more intimate.

Was there a pulse? Reaching out, he pulled her wrist from the sleeve and, to his surprise, he felt a slight flutter.

"Your heart is beating," he said, "and you're warmer. The drug is wearing off."

"Drug?" she said smiling as she snuggled back into his jacket. It was deliciously warm and smelled amazing. She couldn't pin the scent; leather maybe with a touch of soap, spice, and a lingering whiff of cigarette smoke. "There is no drug. You, sir, are in denial and I ain't talking about the river."

Sherlock cringed at her awful grammar and resisted the urge to correct her. "Then explain yourself and leave off that not human nonsense."

"I told you the truth. I'm not human and I'm in deep shit so can we leave off this interrogation rubbish and get me the hell out of here? What time is it? How long have I been here?"

"You mean how long have you been dead?"

She nodded, waving one hand, the arm of his blazer flapping at his face. "You know what I mean," she said.

"If my estimation for your time of death," he emphasized the word looking at her reproachfully, "is correct then you've been out for nearly eight hours. You were found at 12:15 this afternoon. I've answered your questions now answer some of mine. If you refuse to admit that you're human then what are you?"

Her eyes glazed as she did the math in her head. "So it's almost six now. The sun goes down around seven tonight. Huh," she trailed off then came back to herself, "Oh, sorry 'bout that. Yeah I started calling us 'nippers some time back, but the master doesn’t like that. He says it belittles our kind," she mimicked an aristocratic accent. "Bollocks to that. He kinda reminds me of you, in fact."

Good God, Sherlock thought to himself, this is like herding cats.

"And what, exactly, is a 'nipper?" he asked.

"Nu-uh," she shot back, "I answered your question now you gonna help me get out of here or you just going to chew my ears off? I'll warn you, they're a mite cold at the moment and they'll just grow back."

"You didn't answer my question at all," he said, his voice rising in frustration.

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He turned from the woman, disgusted, and read, Coming up, be there in a mo’.

"Alright," he said, "we have a couple of minutes and then we're getting the hell out of here. If Molly asks where the body went, what exactly am I supposed to tell her?"

"I dunno," she said, "you seem bright. Make something up." With that she eased herself off the examination table and started limping towards the door. "This the way out then? I'll send your coat back here when I get some decent kit on. Thanks for that!"

"Oh no you don't," he said dashing in front of her and grabbing her shoulders. "You can't leave me like this. You have to tell me what's going on. If you don't tell me I will go mad and that is not an overstatement." He shook her. "I refuse to beg but I can guarantee you that I will be very cross."

She looked up at him. "Alright, alright. My name is Vara, by the way. Not that you asked." She grinned. Cheeky.

Sherlock took her chin in his large hand and tilted her face to the light. Her eyes literally sparkled. As in, they caught the light like a prism. "What are those, lenses?" he asked.

"Uh-uh…"

"Was that a no or a noise?"

"It was a no and a noise."

"I would ask who hurt you but you don't appear hurt, just dead. You're getting warmer though. You must be over 15 degrees by now."

"It is a little warm in here. Don't you feel warm?"

"No." He ran his thumb over her cheek and down across her bottom lip. "Open," he said.

Doctor John Watson chose that moment to intrude.


	3. Chapter 3

"Got here sooner than expected," John said, "Traffic cleared and…" he trailed off. It appeared as though a strikingly lovely young woman was sucking Sherlock's thumb and he was pretty sure that all she had on was his coat. "Am I interrupting something?"

The woman grinned around Sherlock's finger, eyeing John. "Don't be foolish," Sherlock said. "This is the body."

"What a body it is," John said quietly. She was a tiny thing, couldn't have been over five foot without shoes, but she wasn't frail. Words like full-figured, lush, and ripe went through John's mind and various extremities.

"Oh, I 'ik 'em," she garbled as Sherlock probed her bottom lip, "oh's 'e?"

"Stop trying to talk," Sherlock said. "John, dead woman, dead woman, Doctor John Watson."

She waved to John, the sleeve of Sherlock's jacket flapping over her wrist.

"Hello," John said. "No, wait, dead woman?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "do keep up."

"She doesn't look very dead," John said.

"Her core temperature is below 20 degrees and she's had a full autopsy and toxicology. I saw her dead and now she refuses to stay that way. If you don't believe me come here and feel of her."

The woman wagged her eyebrows suggestively at John as Sherlock tilted her head to inspect her ears.

John looked between Sherlock and the woman. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked.

"It must be. I keep expecting the other shoe to drop but that has yet to happen."

"Alright, I'm game," John said as he walked towards them. "May I," he asked the woman politely, motioning to her wrist.

She grinned, still staying quiet as Sherlock had asked, and held out her hand. John touched her wrist and jerked back in surprise. "My God," he said, "you're freezing! Sherlock, why haven't you gotten this poor woman any clothes?"

"She is freezing because she is dead," Sherlock said calmly.

"Don't be morbid, Sherlock, she's just chilled. I'm sorry, miss, let's try this again." John grasped her wrist again. It looked very small in his hands. "Her pulse is steady if a little weak. If she has a pulse then she's alive."

"Appearances are deceiving," Sherlock said. He ran his fingers through her hair, close to the scalp. He tugged gently to check her follicle tension and she swayed towards him moaning rather inappropriately.

"Oh, quit that," Sherlock said. He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Tell me what you see, John," he said.

"I hate it when you do this to me," John said, still holding the woman's wrist. He could say that he was just trying to keep her warm but that would probably be a lie. "You always ask my opinion after you've already figured out what's happened just to make yourself feel smarter."

"Normally, yes," Sherlock said, "but this time I actually need a second opinion."

John sighed and faced the woman. "What's your name?" he asked.

Her bemused smile broadened. "Vara," she said. She had a lovely voice though her accent didn't suit her. It sounded more likely to come out of an old sailor than a sweet looking young woman.

"Vara," John said. "That's nice. I'm John Watson." She only smiled up at him. "Well, Sherlock, I see a good-looking woman. Maybe Mediterranean? Late twenties. She appears in decent health, just very cold."

"That's all?" Sherlock asked. "Look closer. Look at her eyes."

John humored him and looked more closely. The color drained from his face as the light seemed to become captured in her irises and fracture into tiny rainbows.

"Those are impressive contact lenses," he said weakly.

"They aren't lenses, are they Vara?" Sherlock asked.

"No, they're not," she replied patiently.

"And you're not in your twenties are you?"

"No."

"How old are you?"

She took a deep breath and some of the color came back to John's cheeks. "You really don't want to know," she said.

"Oh, but I do. Would you like me to tell you what I see, John?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked at Vara. "I see a woman far older than she appears. Judging from her accent I would say she hails from East Anglia specifically Ipswich. That nose and overall bone structure point to her being Greek, you were right there, John. Her grammar is abysmal but a little put on as though she doesn't want me to know how intelligent she is. Her body is flawless. Don't smile, it's not a compliment, just an observation. She's either had extensive plastic surgery or her 'miracle' skin prevents her from scarring or having blemishes, not even a freckle. I want to say that she's the product of some hitherto unknown drug but she's not. Once you eliminate the impossible what remains, however improbable, must be the truth. She wasn't lying when she told me she wasn't human. That I've come to that conclusion at all means I must have finally gone insane."

John blinked in astonishment. "Sherlock, if you're saying that this woman isn't human then I'm afraid I'm going to have to agree with you. You sound mad."

"He isn't mad," Vara said, dropping her folksy grammar. "He's close to right on quite a few things. Time passes though, gentlemen." Vara faced Sherlock squarely. "If you want to know," she said, "really know what's going on you need to come with me because I have to leave. _Now_."


	4. Chapter 4

Vara huddled at the doorway to Saint Bart's as John hailed a taxi. "He's a good egg, that one," she said to Sherlock. "Bit uptight but the military will do that to you."

"Noticed that, did you," Sherlock said. She was right, John was a good egg and a military man. He had automatically leapt to Vara's defense despite Sherlock's well-reasoned declaration of her non-humanity. If John had seen her stitches ripped from cold dead flesh he probably wouldn't feel so affectionate. Sherlock had to concede that Vara showed signs of above average intelligence and observation. Of course, the average was so appallingly low that it wasn't saying much.

Rain pelted John's uncovered head making his sandy blonde and silver hair plaster to his scalp. The weather was always unpredictable in London, but the forecast had called for completely clear skies. Sherlock took out his phone and held it under his umbrella as he checked the weather again. No rain predicted, especially not a squall like this. He shuffled closer to Vara and wished he had his damn coat back. "So, what are we running from?" he asked.

"Very bad people. They're close too. This mess is their fault."

"What mess?"

She nodded up at the sky. "This muck! They want to keep me out of the sun and they're doing hell of a job of it."

"Do you mean to tell me," Sherlock started, incredulously, "that whoever is coming for you is causing it to rain?"

Vara looked up at Sherlock, one dark eyebrow crooked skyward. "You just saw me pull a second-coming-of-Christ in there and a bit of rain is unbelievable?"

John whistled at them and they ran towards the taxi, Vara's bare feet splashing on the pavement. Sherlock sat opposite John and Vara studying her closely. John thought he rather looked like a scientist studying a bug under his lens. "Why do they want to keep you out of the sun," Sherlock asked quietly, mindful of the cabbie.

"Because," she replied, "the light will help me heal faster. I can't do diddly the way I am now."

"What can you do?" John asked.

She grinned at him. "Loads of stuff."

Sherlock cleared his throat in the silence. "How did you end up in the park?"

"Can we continue the interrogation after I've got some clothes on please?" she asked.

"So you'll answer all my questions?"

"I promise to do my level best," she replied. She seemed sincere. Maybe he would get his answers. Though he wasn't sure if they would help cure his bafflement or make it worse. All he knew was that not knowing was not an option.

Thunder rolled overhead as the cab splashed through the London streets on its way to John and Sherlock's shared flat at 221 B Baker Street. Vara looked out of the side window and shivered, pulling Sherlock's coat tight around her. "Can I ask you some questions," she said to Sherlock, her dark eyes still watching the rain.

"Of course," he said. "I can't promise that I'll answer everything you ask though."

Vara met his eyes, her face solemn. "Who are you? Really? I'm trusting you with a great deal, far more than you know. How do I know you won't just chop me open again to see how I tick?"

John's eyes passed between them. He knew he was temporarily forgotten but had grown accustomed to that sensation working with Sherlock for as long as he had. He could watch though, during his temporary invisibility. He saw that underneath Sherlock's cool exterior he was shaken to the bone. It was subtle, anyone who didn't know him wouldn't see it, but there was a tightening around his eyes and a tilt to his chin that bespoke of deep fear. John refused to believe that this vibrant woman next to him was anything but alive, but he could not dismiss what Sherlock had told him out of hand. There was always the chance, slim though it might be, that when a mind as great as Sherlock's was wrong then it would be catastrophically wrong. He hoped that whatever was happening, odd as it seemed, that Sherlock would find his answers and that they wouldn't break him in the process.

Sherlock leaned back, his face easing somewhat as it did when he was preparing to brag on himself. "I'm a consulting detective. I assist the police whenever needed, which is often. I simply observe and report my findings."

"There's nothing simple about it," John injected, unable to help himself. "Sherlock has helped solve dozens of cases for the police."

"Oh, I believe it," Vara said. "How could you guess that I'm older than I appear, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's lips twitched in a slight grin. "Simple, really. Your bearing speaks of a woman in full possession of herself, you didn't like being naked on that table but you weren't mortified or panicked. The way you hold yourself when you walk, your head high even though you were in pain. No girl in her late twenties would've handled rising from the grave with such aplomb. There are the little things like the fullness of your cheeks and height of your breasts that speak volumes. And I don't guess."

Thunder crashed overhead, breaking the smug silence. "Bloody hell!" the cabbie barked, swerving his car causing John and Vara to slam into each other and Sherlock to grab the handle by his head and hold on for dear life. The lightening hit directly overhead, thankfully striking a power line and not the taxi. But if that line hadn't been there…

"How close are we to your place?" Vara asked nervously as the cab eased back into its own lane. "Because I don't want to alarm anyone but I think that may have been meant for us."

John straightened himself and looked to Sherlock who merely frowned and said, "We're almost there. Are we in danger?" he asked, leaning forward to rudely invade Vara's space.

"Well, duh!" Vara said. "You bloody well know you are. Is that a problem?"

Sherlock's mouth widened into a familiar smile that always left John filled with dread. "No, Miss Vara," Sherlock purred. "That's what I was hoping you would say."


	5. Chapter 5

The trio dashed into the bottom floor of the walk-up like a herd of wet, bedraggled elephants. Sherlock slammed the door behind them and locked it as though that would stop errant lightning strikes.

"There," John said, "we're all safe now, don't you worry."

Vara laughed and patted John on the shoulder, his black jacket had been soaked through. "Oh, honey," she said, "you have no idea."

"Well," Sherlock said crisply, "let's go upstairs and you give us some idea, hm?" With that he leapt up the stairs to his rooms leaving Vara and John to follow behind.

"Is he always like this?" Vara asked.

"There are few things that excite him more than a mystery."

"Then you better keep an eye on him 'cus he may just blow to the moon before the nights out."

Vara settled into John's room upstairs to change into some of his sleeping bottoms and shirt while Sherlock banged around the kitchen putting the kettle on.

"Sherlock," John said once Sherlock slowed down, "one minute ago you looked scared out of your wits then we nearly get electrocuted and you look like you've won the Grand Prix. I don't know about you, but I have no idea what's going on and I'm sure as hell not happy about it."

"Of course you don't know what's going on," Sherlock said grinning like, in John's opinion, an idiot, "but then neither do I. Isn't that exciting! It happens so rarely for me. I really don't know how you can stand the constant tension of being ignorant."

John rolled his eyes at the dig. "Well I'm glad one of us is having a good time."

"Oh shut up," Sherlock said, "you're having plenty of fun yourself. You look at that woman like you'd have her for a meal. Well, I say woman. God knows what she really is."

"Now don't you…," John began, but he stopped himself as Vara rejoined them. His shirt was a bit too small in all the right places and she'd had to roll the cuffs a bit on his bottoms. Her long dark hair was up in a loose knot at the base of her neck and her pale skin glowed in the warm incandescent light.  He guessed that she was the most attractive thing he'd ever seen in his life. 

"You look nice," he croaked.

"Yes, lovely, that's great," Sherlock said as he leapt over to show Vara to an armchair he dragged around to face John and himself. "Now, begin at the start and don't leave anything out."

Vara looked around as she sat, taking in the general disarray of papers, books, and medical equipment. Each wall had different wallpaper. One was white with bold black designs and a neon yellow spray painted smiley face that was riddled with bullet holes.

"Quite a place ya have here," she said. "I like the dead thing motif," she motioned to the green papered wall where a mounted dark brown bull's skull was hanged. "Why is that bovine wearing headphones?"

"Who cares about that!" Sherlock exclaimed. "How are you alive?"

"Well," Vara said, "when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much…"

Sherlock's icy blue-green eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm not afraid to strike a woman." Vara laughed as John pulled Sherlock into his cushy grey leather chair.

"Vara, please," John said pleadingly, "he's a nightmare at the best of times can you just answer his questions?"

Vara wiped tears from her eyes as her laughter subsided. "Ah, well, since you asked nicely." She accepted the tea John offered and cradled it in her hands to warm them. "You were right, I'm Greek originally. The area is called Serres now but I left there so long ago I don't really know if I can claim it as my own anymore."

"How long ago?" Sherlock asked pointedly as he steepled his fingers under his chin. She sighed. "Best I can guess I'm about three thousand four hundred years old."

"Bullshit," John said impulsively. "I'm sorry, no, you actually expect us to believe that?"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock said. "Go on," he urged Vara apparently swallowing her impossible age with barely a blink.

"Well, I was chosen, as some young unmarried women are, to, how do I put this delicately, be chopped into small pieces and fed to a flaming altar as a sacrifice to our heathen gods. I wasn't keen. I've mellowed in my old age ya know; I was quite the handful back then."

"You don't say," Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh yeah, broke all the ancient traditions and ran for my life. I ended up a whore in Babylon of all places. Hell, I might be the source of that little joke. I was quick though. Always been a bit on the bright side, so I was careful with my body. You should've seen some of the diseases those poor girls would get back in those days. You think herpes is bad? This one time a girl's whole…"

"Fascinating," Sherlock interrupted, "fill us in on all the disgusting infections later and tell us how you became whatever it is that you are."

"Right, well, I got a reputation as being one of the few whores with all my own teeth and that didn't ooze on you when you got what you paid for. I had managed to set myself up well. Funny enough women weren't treated so bad then as they are now in that part of the world. I had a house with servants and everything. I had this one client who liked to experiment and I don't mean with whips and cross dressing. He was a bit like you, Mr. Sherlock, very science minded, though I guess it was more like alchemy then. Rihat, that's his name, told me that he was working on an elixir that would make him able to control anything he wanted with just his mind. I laughed him off of course. I weren't ever mean to him, but, come on you've got to be mental to believe all that, right?" She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock's almost feverish face. He leaned back into his chair and affected an air of nonchalance.

"Go on," he said.

"So," she continued, "a few weeks go by and I don't see him. He'd been coming regular for months, so I began to get worried."

"Whore with a heart of gold," Sherlock said, somewhat spitefully.

Vara's face hardened. "Believe what you want, Mr. Holmes, I cared for the men who came to see me and not just for their money. Rihat was a sweet man and gentle too. And he did come back to me. I'm sure you can guess what happened."

"It worked."

"Yes, he had done it. To this day I can't tell you how and trust me I have spent a large part of my existence trying to figure it out, but I couldn't deny that he had succeeded."

"And he had enough for you?"

"More than enough. Whatever it was it had changed him on what I now know is a molecular level, of course we didn't know that then. Not only could he control the elements, but he couldn't be killed. Not even fire could burn his skin. I know, he showed me to prove it. Stuck his hand right in the brazier and… nothing." Vara trailed off, her eyes unfocused as they saw a sweet young man desperate and ecstatic as his arm wreathed in flames refused to burn.

"You took it," Sherlock said, breaking her reverie.

"Of course," she said. "To control and manipulate everything around you and a handy side effect of eternal life? Are you telling me you wouldn't?"

Sherlock sat for a moment, thinking carefully. "No, no I don't think I would."

"Smart man," Vara said quietly.

"Really, Sherlock," John said, "assuming all this insanity is true are you telling me you wouldn't want eternal life?"

"Vara," Sherlock said, "tell John what your eternal life is like."

She smiled ruefully. "Horrifying. Just when you think humanity can't sink any lower then, boom, there's Hiroshima or a black plague or watching your friends and loved ones age and die around you by the hundreds, by the thousands. The thought of existing until the sun burns in the sky and engulfs the earth billions of years from now is… not very nice."

John swallowed. He didn't believe a word of what she was saying, but she believed it and her eyes, her incredible multi-colored eyes, were beyond haunted. They were bright pools into the lower levels of hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This one is a bit science heavy so brace yourselves. To all the physicists out there I apologize, I wiki'd this as best I could. I think I can hear you screaming from here... Also, let's throw a little romance into this story, shall we?

Vara's hands trembled as she took a sip of tea. John looked stunned. He had imagined eternal life, as everyone does in idle fancy, but would never had believed that it would leave one so devastated. To see the span of humanity's accomplishments over the eons had always struck him with childlike wonder. This though…

"How," John said to her, "um, how do you stand it all then if it's so awful?"

"I went mad ages ago," she said blandly. "Why do you think I have such a sunny disposition?"

"You seem sane to me."

"In relation to what? The others are just as mad as I am, I just went about it differently."

"How differently?" Sherlock interjected.

"Well," Vara started as she sat her tea on a nearby table. "I decided that the only way I could be mad but still function a bit was to let go of all the worry and stress of everyday life and focus on keeping myself entertained. Like this, us talking here in this rather eclectic room with you interesting men is quite entertaining. So I will go on. One more day and then hopefully another. When you two die, as it is inevitable, I won't allow myself to become sad because that way lies madness. I'll just move on to some other entertainment. I've taken a liking to quarks, you know what those are?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied.

John's careworn face furrowed in confusion. "No, is it a kind of duck?" Sherlock gave John his most disappointed look.

"A duck? I despair for you some days, John, I really do. Quarks are the constituents of matter; they make up everything that exists."

"Exactly," Vara said, leaning forward. "I think that's what we can control, the 'nippers and myself. 'Nippers, of course, being short for manipulators. I don't know how we can do it, I haven't gotten that far yet, but I know that with enough time the code will be cracked and the ability to control matter on a subatomic level could be revealed. It won't be just us anymore it'll be anyone. Might be a thousand years from now but it's been done once by complete accident so I imagine it can be done again."

Sherlock noted that Vara's folksy manner of speaking faded rather quickly when she started talking about particle physics. He liked this version of her better.

"Is that why," he said, "your skin absorbs light?"

Vara's eyes widened and their depths revealed an almost human aquamarine blue. "Bloody hell, how did you figure that out?"

"You said it yourself. You needed the light to heal and to fuel these mysterious abilities you keep hinting at. You also said you couldn't do anything because, I assume, you had exhausted your stored energy on your regeneration. They left you frozen but in direct sunlight so they, what, had second thoughts about your assassination attempt?"

"Apparently they did. Personally, if I had wanted me out-of-the-way I would've run me through a meat grinder and sank me into the Mariana Trench. You're spot on, I absorb solar radiation in a way very similar to photosynthesis. I'm fine without sunlight, I mean I won't wither and die like a houseplant trapped in a dark room, I just can't do anything very impressive. But oh you should see me during a solar flare." Vara smiled, the sadness wiped clean from her face. "I can accomplish things even you can't imagine, Mr. Sherlock-smarty-pants."

"Mm, cute. Why are your eyes that way?"

"Side effect of the change. Could be from extended exposure to ultraviolet radiation. Most people would get cataracts, we get freaky irises. Normally, I wear dark-colored contacts or sunglasses. I suppose those are wherever my clothes are. And my phone. Those bastards took my new phone." Vara looked more distressed over her lost phone than anything else that happened that day.

"Ok," John said, "I am beyond lost. I have some questions if…" John looked towards Sherlock who nodded over his steepled fingers, lost in his own thoughts. "Vara, how many of your kind are there?"

Vara sighed. "I think there are four active not including me and around ten inactive."

"Clarify," Sherlock said tersely. Vara rolled her eyes and shook her head at John as if to say, Oh man, this one!

"Periodically, the weight of eternity becomes too much and we can't take it any more. Like me, once I chucked myself down a hole by a glacier for about two hundred years. The inactive ones did stuff similar so they're not an issue. It kinda makes you feel better, like a mega-nap. Boy they're gonna be shocked when they wake up. Hundreds of years of monotony then whammo! Facebook! Ah, it'll be a hoot."

"This is just too much," John muttered. He placed his head in his hands. Vara reached over to pat his knee.

"I know," she said. "You're not the first I've told this to. It's hard on everyone, don't feel bad. If you don't want to believe me, it's ok. Do whatever you need to do make yourself feel better."

John raised his denim blue eyes to look at her face and he simply could not reconcile what he was hearing with what he was seeing. She seemed so normal. Just a girl from the East in his clothes who was in danger. Damsel in distress. It's what they did, Sherlock and he; help people in need. He could do that. He had to focus on what he could do and not on what he couldn't comprehend. He held her hand over his knee, his hand wasn't particularly large as he wasn't a large man, but it swallowed hers. "Ok," he said, "yeah, I can do that. I just want to… We just want to help you."

"You're a good man, Doctor," Vara said. His heart leapt a little in his chest.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Let's say that I choose to believe you. What happens next? Are we in danger for knowing too much? Will John and I end up frozen in a park somewhere, which, by the way, you still haven't explained how and why you ended up at Saint James' Park."

Vara leaned back into her seat leaving John's knee warm and a little over excited.

"Nothing will happen to you," she said. "If you went public with this information then what would happen? Would you like to take bets on how fast they'll have you two in a loony bin? You can go that route but don't think it hasn't been done before with very predictable results. As soon as I'm back up to snuff I'll keep you safe if needed, I promise. How exactly I ended up in that park even I'm not sure of though I am dying to know. Ah, well, not literally I hope." She smiled at Sherlock who did not to rise to the bait. "Cuz I already… ahem!" Vara cleared her throat loudly and gave up amusing the great Sherlock Holmes as a lost cause. "If that's all, boys, I'm a bit knackered."

"One more question, if you can," Sherlock said. "Why are you running?"

Vara's eyes couldn't meet Sherlock's though she knew looking away was as damning as a written confession. She didn't want to see any look of disappointment in his eyes. She'd met great people before, men and women alike. They were rare and in all her years she had yet to avoid being drawn in just like anyone else to that greatness like a moth to a flame. To see someone admirable find you contemptuous was familiar to her.

"I tried to do something very foolish," she said slowly. "I'm not proud of myself and I don't blame my family for being… firm… with me. I'd really rather not say though. I don't think they'll come after me again, but it might be smarter for me to just avoid the lot of them and lay low for a while."

That wasn't the answer Sherlock wanted, but it was the best he was getting for the night, that was obvious. "I need to think. Vara does the violin bother you?"

"Uh, no. Depends how it's played, I guess."

"Good," Sherlock said briskly as he got up and went to the nearby window. He pulled back the curtains and the light from street lamps lit his face from below, throwing his cheekbones into relief which made him look less human than Vara. "Take my room, I won't be sleeping tonight." He pulled his violin from the case and plucked the E string, adjusting it with care.

Vara looked to John who gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded to Sherlock's room.

"Get you some rest," he said, "I think we've all had a shock."

Sherlock started to play a plaintive minuet, never turning to face Vara or wish her goodnight. She felt disappointed.

_Well_ , she thought to herself, _that's idiotic of me._


	7. Chapter 7

John woke later than normal. He had been kept up most of the night with his mind in turmoil. Every time he'd tried to sleep he'd see Vara with her beautiful eyes and funny way of speaking and she'd say, "John, I am the Whore of Babylon." It didn't exactly put him off but it was unsettling. How could one woman be perfectly normal and utterly abnormal all at the same time? And how on earth did he keep getting dragged into messes with these nutters?

Speaking of, John got up to see what state Sherlock had worked himself into. He was where John expected him, not far from his music stand in his big leather chair, his violin clutched to his chest, fingers plucking absently at the strings. Apart from his hair being mussed, obviously from his hands running through the dark curls in agitation, he looked as he always looked when he was on a new case. Distracted yet focused. You'd never know there was a mind whirling in there so fast there should have been smoke coming out of his ears.

"Did you get any sleep?" John asked politely as he started the kettle.

"Hmm. No." Sherlock's voice was rougher than usual from disuse.

"Plan on getting any sleep any time soon then?"

"Probably not. Not until I have this sorted," Sherlock said. His thumb plucked out a discordant series of notes.

"Where is our illustrious guest?" John smiled to himself. Of course, he didn't believe any of this was actually happening; the eternal woman and her not quite family of undying madmen? Nah, in all likelihood he was in a coma or had a Sherlock-induced breakdown and was now drooling in some padded room in a lonely hospital which, if all of this did prove true, was the first place he planned on heading.

"I believe," Sherlock said, "she's sunbathing nude on our roof." Sherlock grinned a little when he heard pottery clatter from the kitchen and John's startled curse as he spilled hot water on himself.

"What if someone sees her!" John blustered. Sherlock glanced up from his violin to meet John's worried face.

"Then I imagine they'll get an eyeful," Sherlock responded calmly. It was unfair of him to needle John but it was so easy he couldn't resist. John always turned the most alarming shade of red. Sherlock could only see the top half of his face over the miniature chemical lab that had once been a dining room table. He currently put John at a 7.5 on the about-to-blow scale. "Maybe you should go check up on her, make sure she's safe from peeping pigeons." Oh, that got him to a 9, interesting.

"Well, I mean, if you think I should…"

Sherlock heard a clatter from upstairs. "Ah, well," he said with fake regret, "maybe next time."

Vara flung open the door in a rush, her long dark hair shining in waves over her shoulders which were, thankfully, clothed. She wasn't wearing John's night-clothes anymore, but a dark blue wrap dress that hit her about mid-shin. "Where did you get that?" Sherlock asked rather sharply. Vara grinned and twirled, the hem fluttering around her legs. "Do you like it?" she asked. "I ran into your lovely land-lady as I was going up and the dear loaned this to me. How did you ever deserve such a sweet woman to take care of you? Oh, hello John!" Vara waved at John who looked as though someone had clubbed him over the head. He's hit a full 10, Sherlock thought.

"I feel so much better now," Vara said before John could pull himself together enough to return her greeting. She walked to the window and basked in the sunlight. "Just like my old self."

"Should we be worried," Sherlock said dryly.

Vara peered at him through her eyelashes and gave him a long look up and down. "Hmm, maybe…"

John cleared his throat loudly from the kitchen. "Well, I for one am very glad that you've recovered." A little ass kissing never hurt anyone especially when said ass made Mrs. Hudson's dress look positively indecent.

Vara smiled brightly at John. "You're such a sweet man, Doctor. You should take lessons from him, Sherlock. He could teach you a thing or two about human interaction."

"You look different," Sherlock said, pointedly refusing to acknowledge her ridiculous notion that he had anything at all to learn from John Watson.

"Well, I would, wouldn't I?" she said. "I got my mojo back! Soaked up enough sunlight to get all my bits working properly again. Would you like to inspect me?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock said as he put aside his violin. Vara's heart leapt into her throat. _Blimey_ , she thought, _didn't think that would work_.

Sherlock towered over her and repeated what he had done the day before in the morgue. He tilted her head this way and that to observe the way light played in her eyes and across her skin, both of which were brighter and even more luminous than they had been before. He ran his fingers through her hair and she only just had enough self-control to keep from embarrassing herself. He was close enough that she could tell he'd showered sometime in the night; he smelled like expensive body wash and bow rosin. She watched him as he watched her. In the morning light, Sherlock's eyes were actually two different colors. One was greener than the other with a dark evergreen band on the outside and a splash of brown near the top, the other more golden near his pupil and a paler shade of blue.

"Heterochromia," she sighed.

"Hmm? Oh, yes," Sherlock said.

"What did you say?" John asked, closer than Vara had expected. When he saw Sherlock plunge his hands into Vara's hair, John had decided that she also needed a professional doctor's opinion and supervision.

"It's when one eye is a different color than the other or multiple shades within the same eye," she said.

"Ah," John replied, squinting up at Sherlock. "Apparently. So, Sherlock, what is your analysis?"

"She appears livelier," he said. Sherlock turned Vara to have her back to the window. He tucked her hair and held out her ear to let the light shine through the shell in a vivid pink. "Or more alive, whatever you want to call it. Her pulse seems a little over elevated though."

John cleared his throat. "Yeah, wonder why. Should we go back to the lab?" he asked.

"Might be a bit awkward," Sherlock said. "I'm sure Molly is wondering where the body is and seeing it waltz back into the lab will be hard to explain."

"Understatement," Vara said ruefully.

Sherlock stepped back crossing his arms, his black dress shirt straining at the buttons. "So," he said, "what are we to do with you, Vara of Macedonia?"

Vara's eyes glazed a bit as she stared at his chest. _One quick tug_ , she thought, _and those buttons will fly off at the speed of light._ "Whatever you want," she said, her voice husky enough to make John blush.

Sherlock smiled tightly and flopped back into his chair. "Wonderful. Now, impress me."

"What?" Vara asked.

"You feel all better now and I'd like to see an example of your tremendous powers. Go on. Surprise me."

"Oh. That."

"Yes, that. Unless, of course, all of this is some drug-fueled faffing about in which case we can all get on with our lives. I, for one, want nothing more than to put this foolishness behind us."

John winced. Sherlock might have been able to say that in a nicer way, but sometimes he couldn't resist the urge to be an insufferable dick. Vara, to her credit, did not back down to Sherlock's venom. "You'd like that, wouldn't you," she said, her voice overly sweet and her eyes daggers. "Who would've thought a mind like yours would shrink from the unknown. How… disappointing." Sherlock stiffened but said nothing. "You want proof?" Vara looked quickly around the room and grabbed a book. "Is this important?" she asked.

Sherlock read the title and shook his head. "Good," she said and in the space of a heartbeat the object went from a book to… a book, but solid, clear crystal. No. Sherlock blinked as light reflected off, but not through the book.

"What is that?" he said, his voice tense.

"Oh, this," Vara said quite casually. "This is now a giant _diamond_ book."

She tossed it to him and he caught it reflexively. It was heavy, heavier than it should've been for a medium size guide to British bird watching and, yes, it was quite obviously a book shaped diamond.

The room was silent for a long while. John collapsed into his battered armchair like a marionette with its strings cut.

"How?" Sherlock finally asked, dragging his mismatched eyes away from the book to look at the impossible woman before him. She raised her chin in defiance.

"I told you how last night," she said. "It's not my fault you had your head up your arse and refused to believe me."

"How could I believe you? How could I _possibly_ believe you, this is madness," he yelled as he leapt to his feet, waving the book-thing at her face. "Can you change it back," he demanded.

Vara shrunk back from him, edging farther into the sunlight. "No, I can't," she said.

"What! Why not?"

"Once I change something I can't undo it, it doesn't work that way. I can change it into something else, but it'll never be that same book again."

Sherlock looked beyond aggravated. "You said you could do anything, so prove it! There's no reason you shouldn't turn this back, it makes no sense."

"Yes it does, you prat," Vara snarled at him, getting right back in his face. "Think! Hardening an already carbon based object into a diamond is simple, one big step, but I would have to know every word, every molecule of ink, every tiny stupid picture of fucking finches, binding, glue, you name it to make that into a book again so before you get after me thinking you know anything, anything, better than I do you had better check yourself, you, you," Vara's lips twisted, "you cock!"

Vara turned and faced the window, her arms crossed and her back stiff. Sherlock lowered the book and opened his mouth to, maybe, apologize, when a shot rang out. The window in front of Vara exploded in a shower of glass. She dropped where she stood, a gaping hole in her upper chest so large you could see her heart feebly beat once then stop. Sherlock dove to her, covering the wound with his hands, blood thick and hot covered him to his wrists. He was yelling though his ears were ringing and his voice sounded muffled. John leapt up the moment the shot rang out and drew his pistol from a pocket built into the side of his chair. He ran to the window and stood with his back to the wall beside it and screamed at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock shouted.

"Get down!" John said though Sherlock had to read his lips to know what he wanted. John took a deep steadying breath, refusing to look at the mess that had been Vara, and darted his head out of the hole where the window had once been before leaning back against the wall. He hadn't seen anything. Judging from the hole in her chest oh, God, it's huge he guessed a .50 caliber sniper rifle fired from as much as a mile away.

John's ears started ringing as his hearing returned and he could work out that Sherlock asked if he'd seen anything. John shook his head and slid down the wall, his knees giving out. He finally looked back at her and Sherlock who was covered in her blood.

"Is she…" John gasped.

Sherlock pointlessly took her pulse. She was so tiny. Such fragile little hands. He looked at John.

"She's gone," he said.

"Well," a deep voice said from the doorway, "I wouldn't say that."


	8. Chapter 8

John jerked the gun up and sighted the barrel at a tall, strongly built man of obvious Middle-Eastern descent. He was wearing a deep plum suit that would've looked foolish on anyone who didn't happen to be built like a brick wall. His full lips smiled behind a thick, black beard and John's finger nearly twitched to blow that smile off of his smug, fat head.

"You can't keep a good woman down," he said, pulling on black leather gloves, "And Vara is so very, very good."

"Who the hell are you," John said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, my apologies," the man said, bending at the waist in a mocking bow. "My name is Ubar, brother of Rihat. And you, little gnat, have something that is mine."

"And you," Sherlock said as he rose slowly from Vara's body, blood dripping from his fingertips, "broke my window."

Ubar burst into laughter. "Ah," he said, "A smartass! You remind me of someone I once knew." He walked towards Sherlock, his polished shoes crunched on broken glass. "I turned his bones to fine porcelain and shoved him down a flight of stairs. Will I do this to you, or should I be… creative?" His voice was a hiss as he stood over Vara, his huge body crowding Sherlock. John kept the gun trained on the man but he knew that if he pulled the trigger it would probably just piss Ubar off.

Vara coughed weakly and John nearly leapt out of his skin. Her eyes fluttered and she reached out, her hand brushing Ubar's pants cuff. Her lips bubbled with blood as she tried to speak. "See," Ubar said, "she is just fine. What's that, whore? Do you have something to say?"

"D… Don't hurt… them." John's heart broke to hear her defend them. Sherlock's hands twitched and slowly curled into fists.

Ubar's massive shoulders shook in laughter. "You stupid cow," he said to her, almost with affection. "Your pets mean nothing to me. You be a good girl and come along with Ubar, or I will turn them inside out." He reached down and balled his hand in her beautiful, blood-soaked hair and pulled her up, her body limp. She started crying and looked up at Sherlock. His cheek twitched and he sighed, "Vara…"

Vara sobbed and with the last of her strength, clasped Ubar's ankle. Ubar's lip curled and his face stiffened. His eyes flew wide and with a burst of evaporating heat his entire body froze stone solid. He tottered and fell back with a resounding crash, his hand still clutching Vara's hair. She screamed as she was pulled back with him, her hair ripping loose from her scalp, her eyes rolled back and she fainted.

"Hurry!" Sherlock yelled as he gathered Vara into his arms. "Cut her hair loose, we have to get her to the roof!"

John tucked the gun into his waistband and pulled out his pocket knife. He hacked at Vara's hair, setting her free. Sherlock flew to the door with John hot on his heels. It took both of them to get Vara through Mrs. Hudson's skylight.

Sherlock laid Vara in the warmest part of the roof, thankful that they lived in a flat-topped building. He sat back on his heels, careful to keep from casting a shadow. John collapsed next to Vara across from him and brushed a hank of bloody hair from her ghostly pale forehead. 

"Oh, God, Sherlock," he said, his voice trembling, "what are we going to do?"

Sherlock stood abruptly. "You stay here with her. I'm going back down."

"What?" John asked, startled, "Why?"

Sherlock's face hardened and his eyes flashed with malice. "Mrs. Hudson still keeps a wood axe in the shed, doesn't she?"

John nodded and Sherlock smiled coldly. "Well, John, I think I'm going to go take care of Mr. Ubar." And with that he shimmied back into the house, leaving John with the bleeding, broken woman he was fairly certain he was falling in love.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock grunted as he swung the last garbage bag over the bridge. There had been ten in all; Ubar had been a large man. John looked over the edge as the bag hit the water with a splash. It was dark, he could barely make out the water rippling away from what he thought had been Ubar's head. They'd decided to spread him out over several different bridges, this last on the outskirts of London heading west.

Sherlock dusted his hands together, satisfied with a job well done. They walked back to Mrs. Hudson's Ford Mondeo where Vara waited comatose and cold in the back seat. Sherlock started the car and headed further out-of-town, driving carefully so as not to attract attention. John looked back, checking on Vara for the hundredth time. Still cold, still no pulse. "She exhausted herself to save us," John said.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I wonder if we could put her in a sun bed," he said.

John turned to him. "Run that by me again."

"Think about it! She needs UV light, that's what they use," he shrugged, "I don't see why it wouldn't work."

"And how, exactly, are we going to get a woman who appears dead into a tanning parlor?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Hmm, good point. I guess we'll just have to wait 'till sunrise."

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"Far away. Obviously Mr. Ubar," Sherlock sneered, "wasn't working alone. God only knows how long it'll take him to come back together again but I'd rather be outside a fifty mile radius when he does."

"Yeah…" John looked out of the window at the tail end of London at night. They were getting into the suburbs where things quieted down a bit. The grew lights farther and farther apart as the urban sprawl dwindled then eventually gave way to rolling countryside. It had taken them the better part of the day to dispose of Ubar. John had come back to the room cradling a broken Vara in his arms to see Sherlock decked out like Dexter the Lumberjack. They had to take their grisly task in shifts; Vara had done a number freezing him and it felt like carving solid stone. Then poor Mrs. Hudson had come home and while John distracted her downstairs, Sherlock bagged up what they had and cleaned up the worst of the mess. The blood though, Vara's blood, was on the floor like someone had spilled a gallon of dark red paint that refused to clean up properly. So they did the only thing they could do which was to pack up, borrow Mrs. Hudson's car, and get the hell out of London.

John sighed and looked back at Vara again. "Oh quit that," Sherlock said exasperated. "She's fine. You saw her. Hole the size of your fist in her chest and she took that walking mountain down like a champ. You know, that was actually pretty impressive of her."

John blinked in disbelief. "Well," he said, "you make sure to tell her that when she wakes up."

Sherlock grimaced. "I don't know if I'd go that far," he said.

John smiled and reached back to hold Vara's limp, cold hand. "I may have an idea," he said.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, my family always went on holidays down in Cornwall. I know my way around some of the smaller villages pretty well. I'm sure we could find somewhere to stay."

"Works for me. There's too much of this that I don't understand and I need somewhere quiet to think. Then, once she recovers, I can get some answers out of her."

John frowned. "She's been through a lot Sherlock, don't be too rough on her."

Sherlock huffed. "She'll be fine." He glanced down at John's hand holding Vara's and sighed. "You're getting too attached."

"What?" John bristled.

"Don't 'what' me. You think this is going to turn out well, the two of you? Please. Not only is she thousands of years old she's being hunted for who knows what reason by people or things just as unnatural as she is. You plan on growing old with her, are you? You will, she won't. And she's already said she wouldn't give a damn if either of us died. It doesn't sound promising to me."

John glared at him for a moment and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Ah, hell Sherlock, you're right." He looked at her still form in the darkness. "She is lovely though. Of course, it's not me she wants," he said, trying hard not to sound bitter.

"God help whomever she does want," Sherlock said, willfully ignorant. John just shook his head and kept his vigil. Vara may not love him, but he would still do his best to keep her as safe as he could. And if she got it into her head to care for Sherlock Holmes then he will offer her a shoulder to cry on for that as well.

The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when they rolled into some random southern hamlet that suited their needs. It was small, remote, and had a vacancy. While John got the room and gritted his teeth through the "one bed or two?" routine, Sherlock parked the car around back in the biggest patch of sun he could find and hauled Vara onto the roof of the car.

Sherlock leaned against the boot and rolled up his sleeve to apply yet another nicotine patch to his forearm. He could've used a cigarette. Hell, he'd settle for a ridiculous pipe at this rate. It would've made him more predisposed to enjoy the beautiful sunrise over the ocean, the splash of light on the waves and the crisp sent of salt-air in his lungs when all he wanted was the sweet burn of ash and smoke. He glimpsed up at Vara, a pathetic lump on the top of the car, one hand flung carelessly over the side.

He had examined Ubar before dissecting him. Besides a bad taste in clothes, he hadn't gotten much. That he, Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, had drawn a blank was irritating. The care Ubar had taken to give no hint of his origin or lifestyle showed that he was more than muscle and insults, he had been smart. Was smart, he supposed. Sherlock doubted their stunt would do anything more than slow Ubar down. And Sherlock would do it all again, every whack. Vara's pet, was he?

"You look like you could chew nails," John said, interrupting Sherlock's murderous train of thought.

Sherlock slid his eyes to John and watched as he, yet again, checked Vara's pulse and temperature. He was doting on her as though she were a fragile little flower. What a joke. She could probably survive a nuclear blast and from the way John treated her it was as if she were spun glass. That's where caring got you, he supposed.

"Do you want to stay out here or shall I?" he asked John.

"Well," John said, "you haven't slept in a few days. Maybe you should try…"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, cutting him off. As usual when he became frustrated he took it out on the nearest warm body.

"Right. Well, I'll go in then and get us settled." John slammed the car door a little too hard after retrieving their bags and stomped around the building to their room.

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, the rising sun warm on his face. Finally, peace and quiet. On the long drive down he had forced himself to accept the situation's reality. He wouldn't fight any longer with the inevitability of Vara's story. Facts were facts and if he refused to acknowledge them it would be a mistake that could bite him in the ass. After that life altering decision there were still too many questions left unanswered. The biggest, the one driving him nearly mad, was why Vara's life, or whatever you want to call it, was in such danger. Her family wanted her back and weren't afraid to crawl over human bodies to do so. They didn't hesitate to hurt her either. Ubar had been more than physically violent, he'd been cruel and it came to him as easily as breathing. Sherlock wondered how long she had been called "whore" by them. What abuse had she suffered, indignities large and small tolerated for hundreds, possibly thousands of years? If he looked at it from that point of view it was easy to see why she would want to escape, but there was something more, something missing. Ubar's actions were those of a desperate man. He had been sloppy hiring a sniper, showing himself to Sherlock and John, it made no sense. What on earth had she done to scare them so badly?

Sherlock heard a tiny groan and looked back to see Vara stirring. "Ah, good," he said, cheering considerably. He stood over her, the car low enough that he could see her well, and watched as she woke up. It didn't happen like in the lab at Bart's, she just stirred fitfully like waking from a long nap and opened her eyes.

"Good morning," he said. "Can you speak?" He moved aside her ruined dress to watch as her partially mended chest wound slowly began to heal completely. He didn't want to disturb her recovery of course, but he couldn't resist the urge to lay one finger near her breast bone to feel the muscle move beneath the skin. He could no longer see into the raw cavity of her chest but he could hear the small popping noise of her ribs snapping back in place and her destroyed scapula scrape back together.

"Fascinating…" he breathed.

She took a deep, slow breath and said, "I could wake up to see your face every day for eternity and never once be tired of it." Sherlock blinked in surprise. He jerked his hand away from her chest.

"Ah," he said, stammering, "that's, um, nice. Listen, do you need to stay out here or can we go inside now?"

Vara gave a little laugh and winced. "Yeah, I am feeling a bit exposed," she said. She held out her arms and Sherlock gathered her to him, placing her arms around his neck. Vara nestled her head against his chest. She could hear his heart beating. He had one, maybe there was hope.


	10. Chapter 10

John hovered as Sherlock laid Vara on the bed. "Is she alright?" he asked, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

Vara smiled and patted the bed beside her. "I'm fine, Doctor, come here. I know you were taking care of me."

John sat beside her, his face controlled but full of relief. "You scared us back there." He reached out to hold her hand which, thankfully, was warming. "Vara, I…" he trailed off at a completely loss. She squeezed his hand and said, "Thank you. Thank you both." Vara looked at Sherlock. He squirmed in discomfort. "Yes," Sherlock said, "well, anyone would've done the same. I have some questions for you."

John snapped his head around. "God, Sherlock," he said, "can't you give her five minutes to…"

"John," Vara interrupted, "it's ok." She looked down at her gory dress. "Mrs. Hudson is going to kill me. John I know it's early, but could you be a lamb and see if there's anything at all in the village that I might wear?"

John knew she was just trying to get rid of him, but heaven help him he couldn't resist the chance to help her. "Of course," he said rising. He shot Sherlock a warning look which Sherlock promptly ignored.

"And some milk," Sherlock said. John sighed, straightened his back, and marched out.

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and looked at Vara for a long moment. She sat on the bed with her face turned to the sun. She had her eyes closed and appeared as though she were breathing in the light.

"Tell me," he said. Vara sighed and without opening her eyes said, "They're trying to stop me from exposing them."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked.

She turned to face him, her face solemn. "I was going to expose them. Us, I should say. Tell the world about us, what we can do, what we have done."

"How?"

"I dunno," she shrugged. "Hadn't gotten that far. I was thinking of walking into a cancer ward and curing everyone. Freeze the water in the Thames. Turn the BBC building into a giant teddy bear. Could do anything, really. Nothing too Jesus-y of course, wouldn't want everyone going in the wrong direction with this."

"Why?"

"Because I hate what we've become. I hate myself. What I've done. Sherlock, you have no idea. The things that Rihat created out of boredom. It's as much my fault as it is his, I was compliant. We could've made the world a utopia and all we made were monsters. Now we are monsters. I thought, maybe, if I forced their hand…" Vara rubbed her face making dried blood flakes float like morbid dust motes in the air. "Oh, God, I'm such an idiot. I just wanted to make things better…"

"Good intentions," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I know." Vara lowered her hands. She was a mess, she felt like a mess. It was more than blood and tears, it was bone deep. Why couldn't she do one thing, just one bloody thing that was decent?

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, that wasn't what I expected."

Vara smiled a little and tilted her head. "Oh? What were you expecting?" she asked.

"Not much. I had seven ideas and none of them cast you in a good light."

"I haven't exactly cast myself in a good light, now have I? Eh, don't bother. You were nearly killed because of me. I'm sorry."

"I thought you wouldn't care if I lived or died?"

Vara gave a little laugh. "Oh, you ass. A world without Sherlock Holmes? That's a terrible thought." Her smiled faded and her eyes became lost in the distance. _But it will happen,_ she thought. _He will die and the world will be without him and…_ Vara took a shaky breath and refused to cry. "Can you, um, get a kettle started? I'm parched."

Sherlock stood and walked to the little kitchenette. The cottage wasn't much, two rooms with sparse furniture. It looked like it was built after the second World War. The ceiling was low enough to make Sherlock duck his head as he walked for fear of braining himself on a beam. "So, what did you make?" he asked.

He could hear her sigh. "I didn't make anything, Rihat did all that. But just use your imagination. Then keep using it for a few thousand years getting bored and then getting creative with limitless boundaries."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and leaned up, nearly smacking his head into a cupboard. His face drained of color.

"Tell me," he said his back still to her.

"Anything. Everything. Every nightmare, every fairy tale, science fiction novels, horror stories, they're all true. Everything. He made them. If they'd been one offs it would've been fine, and some were, but no, he had to make them breed. He had to give them a way to thrive and spread. They're his children, you know? His… legacy." Her voice sounded repulsed. He looked over his shoulder at her. Vara's hands were balled into fists at her side and her face reddened with anger and embarrassment.

"There were cases," he said, slowly, "Cases I couldn't solve, cases that…"

"Cases you couldn't explain," she looked at him and her eyes burned with violet fires. "They were his. He loves the UK, he's done his most ambitious work here."

"Like?"

"There was only one thing that he made that I ever loved. Just one." Her eyes welled with tears. "And when he found out I loved them he took them from me. He… he took my d-dragons from me." Vara dissolved into tears. She turned her face from him, but he could see her shoulders shaking as she sobbed.

Sherlock sat the kettle down, just then realizing he'd been holding it in the air for some time. He wasn't made to comfort people, it wasn't in him, but she was pitiful. He sat by her on the bed and patted her shoulder. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry. That he did that." He sat uncomfortably for a moment then hopped back up to continue making tea as loudly as possible. "So, why does he hate you?"

Vara sniffled and wiped her face on a ragged edge of her dress. "He does hate me," she said, her voice still trembling. "You're right about that. Has for ages. He didn't really know me that well when he changed me. I was just a hot piece of ass, ya know? Rihat always had ideas of how the world should have been and I've never been one to go with plans. Can you imagine me as a docile housewife? I learned though, eventually. Learned not to have friends, get close to anyone really. He'd find out I was happy then…" She slid her hand through the air. "Off with their heads. If they were lucky. That's what the dragons were." Her lips trembled. "My best friends. He thought he'd make them into monsters, huge scaly beasts, but they were still… human. Inside. And beautiful in their way. They were the last."

"When was this?"

"Um, around 1206 or so. Something like that."

Eight hundred years without a friend. Pitiful indeed.

"How many are still around?" he asked.

"Not too many, thank God. Just a few of the more vicious species survived. I figured if I told people about us then they'd be aware, people could protect themselves, ya know? It's not fair to you. You've got enough to be getting on with without throwing monsters in."

Sherlock handed her a cup of tea and sat back into one of the two chairs the room held. It creaked alarmingly but didn't shatter.

"Sherlock," Vara said quietly, "this place blows."

Sherlock smiled then started laughing. She joined him, unable to help herself. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice still full of laughter, "I would've called ahead to the Four Seasons but I think I accidentally broke the phone when I was hacking up Ubar."

Vara choked on her tea. "You what?" she asked, coughing.

Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. "Didn't I tell you? He's in the Thames. In bags. Many bags."

Vara tilted her head back and roared in laughter, her tea nearly spilling in her lap. "Oh that's brilliant! It'll take him ages to get back together again."

"It was your idea," he said. She raised her eyebrow in question. "Don't you remember?" he asked. "You said if anyone had to get rid of you to run you through a meat grinder and drop you in the ocean. Didn't have a meat grinder, but I did have an axe. Worked well enough."

Vara wiped her eyes and shook her head. "You are one of a kind, Sherlock Holmes."

"I know."


	11. Chapter 11

John returned with enough supplies to last them a few days. He was surprised to see Sherlock smiling to himself and Vara still in one piece, though her red-rimmed eyes showed that she had been crying.

"So," he said to Sherlock as he sat some bags on the counter, "what have you two been talking about? You seem pleased, is that a good thing?"

Sherlock chuckled, alarming John all the more. "Yes," Sherlock said, "very good. Vara's been telling me all about the things that go bump in the night. John, do you remember the case from last April with the shredded map and the dead brother? I couldn't solve it."

"Yes," John said, "you were quite… distressed."

"No need to sugar-coat it, I went on a bender for a week and you found me in Doncaster playing fiddle in a pub. I know now that whatever did the crime wasn't of this world. It was of Vara's. So, it wasn't my fault I couldn't figure it out."

"You played fiddle in a pub?" Vara asked, hiding a smile behind her hand.

"I'd lost all my money trying to cheat at dice and had to feed myself somehow but," he waved his hands excitedly, "none of that matters! Don't you see? There was a missing piece to all those cases where no logical solution could be found. Now I'm closer to finding what those missing pieces were."

"What," John said, "so now you know you're still a genius it's just that the world's gone mad?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replied.

"Uh-huh." John rolled his eyes and brought Vara a bag of clothes. He placed a hand on her forehead and checked her eyes. "Pickings were a bit slim in the village, I hope you don't mind."

"No, thank you so much, John. You're amazing."

John blushed. "Yes," he said, "well, no problem. Uh, so how long are we planning on staying here? I just, I have to get back to the surgery at some point and…"

"Quite impossible," Sherlock said shortly. "We have more to worry about than your little job. If you're nervous about them letting you go, call and tell them… I don't know, that I died or something. It doesn't matter."

"Sherlock, just because you can survive on nicotine patches and whiskey doesn't mean the rest of us can. I like my job and I'd rather not lose it."

Sherlock pointed a finger at Vara. "Sitting there is the single most fascinating medical discovery of all time and you'd rather wipe snot from some brat's nose than study her?"

"Wait a minute," Vara said, "I am not a medical discovery!"

"It's too dangerous anyhow," Sherlock said, ignoring her outburst. "They found us at our home, you think they can't find you at your work? Until we get this mess sorted out we're all going under the radar."

"And how, exactly, are we going to sort this out?" John asked, his temper flaring.

"Alright, alright!" Vara said. "Both of you calm down. This is for me to sort out, Sherlock, not you. You've both done more than enough."

"Oh," Sherlock said, "what are you going to do? Turn yourself in to them?"

"Yes."

" _What?_ " John and Sherlock exclaimed simultaneously.

"Don't sound so shocked. Listen, I had no idea they would come after me this aggressively. I can't put both of you in danger, not like this. I don't like it either, but I said I'd keep you safe and I meant it. So, I'll go back. Rihat will do whatever he wants to me then he'll get bored and forget I exist, just like he always does, and then I can get back out again. Eventually."

John stared at the floor. In his heart he knew she was right but the thought of what they would do to her was awful. She was right. She was right. Then why did he feel sick?

"Unacceptable," Sherlock said, very matter of fact. Vara raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of his rickety chair in impatience. "I have too many questions for you," he said. "There's too much I need to know. The knowledge that you have… I can't let you leave."

"Can't?" Vara said archly. "Or won't? Darling, you couldn't stop me if you had a tank."

"One week. Give me one week. They won't fire John from his _job_ ," he said with more than a little sneer in his voice, "and it'll give me the chance to talk to you. You won't mind that, will you? One week. With me. Here."

Vara blushed. She knew damn well she was being manipulated, but one entire week in relative seclusion with one of those most fascinating men she'd met in over a hundred years? Hard to resist. Impossible in fact. Damn it.

"Fine," she said, her cheeks pink. "But Sherlock, if I think for one instant that you and John are in danger I will leave, no questions asked, I'll just go. John, what do you think?"

John was a military man, a captain and a doctor, practical and level-headed in most regards. He knew, logically, that he would be an afterthought. In all likelihood, he'd sit in a corner watching Vara flirt outrageously with an unresponsive Sherlock for seven days. Then again, he would get to watch Vara for _seven days_. Maybe after extended exposure to Sherlock she would realize that in the dictionary under "lost romantic cause" is a picture of Sherlock Holmes.

"Well," he finally said, "the clinic does owe me some holiday time. I could phone them…"

"Good, it's settled," Sherlock said, cutting him off. "For one week, Vara, you're mine."

John looked between the two of them, Vara blushing so hard even her eyes looked pink and Sherlock flushed with the kind of frantic energy that could result in all of them getting into more than a bit of trouble. Yep, nice peaceful vacation. Just what the doctor ordered.

* * *

 

Vara slept for a few hours, soaking up the afternoon sun on her little single bed as the last of her injuries healed. Sherlock sat close to her, his hands folded as ever under his chin. She'd showered in the tiny bathroom and changed into the long gown John had bought for her. It had red roses sewn around the white-collar and it looked childlike on her. Or maybe that was because Vara looked like a little girl when she slept. When awake her face was devoid of any blemish age may leave, but it contained in it a tension. The tightness of her eyes and the way she chewed her lips when she was thinking betrayed her. If she had been human, worry lines would've formed between her dark eyebrows long ago and dark circles would've inevitably been below her eyes. She laid though, on a patchwork coverlet of every color made to offend, relaxed and loose. One soft arm draped over her belly, the other flung over her head to tangle in her still damp hair.

Part of Sherlock knew that most men would look at her and see the way her chest moved as she breathed as an invitation. Her lips, red and parted as she breathed, would be irresistible. He saw only history. He saw kingdoms rise and fall, empires expand and crumble while she watched with her Technicolor eyes. History is written by the victors. He knew that what humanity identified of its past had been selected for them by scribes who picked at the facts and drew out what they most wanted to see the light. But she had seen it all. She contained within her the secrets and dark truths kept hidden for ages. If only he could get her to talk.

Sherlock reached out and wrapped a dark curl around his finger. Her hair was fine and clung to his long fingers. He knew that he _could_ get her to tell him anything he wanted. But it would cost him. He could be charming, of course. He was smart enough to know what to say, when to say it, and how to say whatever needed to achieve his goals. Many times he had flattered Molly, the forensics technician at Bart's, to get her to help him with his more outrageous demands. He could tell what a man had for breakfast and what his mistress had ordered as well, he could damn well identify a besotted woman who looked at him with naked longing in her eyes. Molly's crush was convenient and one that was easy enough to stoke when needed. Vara, though, was different. She wasn't an inexperienced woman dazzled by a sharp mind, she was a former prostitute of an age gone by who had spent almost a thousand years in isolation. Vara was as observant as he was and, in his heart of hearts, he knew that she surpassed him in every way he considered himself exceptional. He couldn't flash a grin and compliment her shoes and expect her to lay out a red carpet for him.

Growing up, he'd never once been tempted to pull a girl's pigtails to get her attention or looked dreamy-eyed at the boy next door. It simply was not in him. He had his stimulation in puzzles to unravel, mysteries to solve, and when that failed, a drug habit to nurture. He had, mostly, gotten over his addiction when he'd started freelancing for the police. Near endless activity thanks to their almost constant incompetence gave him the fix he needed to get through the day without feeling like a wild animal slamming itself against a cage.

Sherlock would not be able to look at Vara and show her what she wanted to see; passion, fire, and lust burning in his eyes. But maybe he could show her something close, something to keep her talking. Not passion of the body but fascination of the mind. He did lust for the truth, that was certain. Maybe that would be enough. _Maybe_.

He sighed and pulled his hand from her hair. He would never admit to John but there were times every now and again when he deeply and truly hated himself. He knew he was a manipulative monster. He felt bad about not feeling bad. Maybe that's why he chose detective work when he could've done almost anything set before him and succeed with flying colors. He felt the need to balance out the darkness within himself by helping others. Vara had shown him that what he had thought of as darkness was only the beginning. He may have thought himself a monster in his mind but out there, right now, real monsters walked the streets. His streets. All he had to do now was figure out what lengths he would go to protect those streets and who he would have to hurt to protect the people who walked them.


	12. Chapter 12

Vara's eyelids felt like lead weights. She didn't want to wake up, but she could hear the little click-click of fingers flying on a tiny keyboard and curiosity wouldn't let her sleep. Peeking one eye open she saw Sherlock curled over John's phone furiously typing away.

"Whatteryouwriting?" she asked in one long slur.

Sherlock didn't look up. "Trying to keep Molly from calling the police. Something about a missing corpse."

"That'd be me, then."

"Yes. It's awkward. How are you?"

"Mkay…"

"Really? You sound horrible. Did you damage your larynx?"

Vara cleared her throat harshly and frowned. "Yeah, well, it's been a rough few days, hadn't it? I did get shot."

"Yes but you sounded fine earlier. Do I need to put you outside again?"

"Lord," she said, "sounds like you're taking the dog out. I did agree to stay here ya know, you could be a little nicer to me."

Sherlock looked up, his face a picture of practiced innocence. "I'm sorry," he said, "have we met?"

Vara grunted and dragged herself up to shuffle to the bathroom. "Where's John?" she asked.

"Out. I think. Said he needed to find his phone."

Vara paused at the bathroom door. "Uh, isn't that his phone?"

"Yes, he'll figure it out eventually."

Sherlock could hear her muttering to herself as she closed the door. His plan to mentally seduce her was going really well so far, he thought.

* * *

 

"I need a microscope!" Sherlock hollered at no one in particular. He stomped through the house, rattling the ancient timbers. Stopping he noticed for the first time that day that he was alone. And he was talking to himself. Extensively. _Damn it_.

Sherlock found John and Vara sitting on a hill overlooking the ocean some ways from the cottage. They'd brought food.

"Oh God," Sherlock said, "are you having a picnic?"

John looked up at him, shading his eyes with his hand.

"Something wrong with that?" he asked.

"Disease, John. Bugs and worms and sheep droppings. You could be sitting in a pile of shit right now and not even know it."

Vara looked around herself at the blanket and the hillside then inspected her wine glass. "I don't see any poo but I am severely lacking in wine which is a bloody tragedy. John?" Vara held out her glass for John to refill.

"Yes, ma'am," John said primly and tippled wine for her. Vara giggled, her shaking glass sprinkling white wine on the blanket.

"He calls me ma'am," she said to Sherlock, "because I'm very old."

"Good grief," Sherlock said, "are you two drunk?"

John shook his head a little too hard. "No. I mean yes. It seemed like the thing to do. World's goin' to hell, have a drink. 'S a good British tradition."

"No no no no," Vara said, "Good British tradition would be taking over other countries because you want their stuff. Trust me, I'm Greek, I knew Alexander the Great and he did that a bunch."

Sherlock's face stilled. "Did you really know him?" he asked, his voice intense.

"Nope! Just fuckin' with you," Vara said and John burst into laughter.

Sherlock's eyes rolled heavenwards. "God save me from drunken immortals," he said.

"Aw," Vara said patting the blanket beside her. "Come 'ere and sit by me. I wish I could tell you 'bout all the amazing historical people I knew, but I didn't. Know any, that is."

"Why'd you not know any? You're a fascinating woman, I figure you'd be neck-deep in that sort," John said before drinking what wine was left directly from the bottle.

Vara sighed. "World's a big place. Well, it was, ain't so much anymore. Used to take months and months to get anywhere exciting and by then all the excitement was over. Personally, I avoided all that. Quiet life, that's what I like."

Sherlock snorted and sat on a corner of the blanket, his knees folded up to his chest. "Why do I find that hard to believe," he said.

"Because," Vara said, "you haven't seen me at my best." Vara straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin though the effect was somewhat ruined by her squinting eyes and flushed cheeks. "I'm ver' dignified."

"Right. I'm sure you are," he said. "Vara, I need you to sober up and make me a microscope. I want to study your blood."

John's eyebrows rose. "Oh," John said, "can you do that, Vara?"

"What," she said, "sober up? Nope. I refuse."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Vara, I am running out of time. We've already been here two days, I need data."

"You're such a spoil-sport. Fine, I'll just go do that then. But I don't want you to watch." She pointed a finger an inch from his nose. "You stay out here!" With that she stood with as much dignity as possible and wobbled back to the cottage.

"So," John said, "what'd you think?"

"About?"

John waved his hands about. "All this. Monsters and gorgeous women who won't die and we chopped someone up and dumped the body. It's been a busy few days."

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked out on the beautiful seascape. "I'm having difficulty processing our situation."

"It's pretty tits-up."

Sherlock laughed and looked over at John. "Yeah, it is," he said. "What do you think?"

John fell back on the blanket and folded his hands behind his head. "I trust her. I mean, between the diamond book thing and coming back to life, why not believe her?"

"I believe what she's said, but there's more. I don't trust her."

John frowned at Sherlock. "What do you mean you don't trust her?"

"I can't put my finger on it but…" Sherlock trailed off. He rubbed his hands over his face in frustration. "She told you why she was running? Why they're after her?"

"Mm-hmm. She was gonna expose them. We've been talking. A lot. I think she likes me. I like her."

"Focus, John. Her story is weak. Just exposure? Doesn't make sense. Of course, they would want to stop her but there's something she's not telling us. I need to find a way to get her to talk to me."

"You could be nice."

"I have been nice."

John choked out a laugh. "Yeah, ok." Sherlock frowned at him and looked back at the cottage.

"Right," Sherlock said, "I'm sure that's enough time. Coming?"

"Alright. Um. Help me up?"

Sherlock gathered the loose wine bottles and steadied John as they walked back. John knocked on the door, but tripped through before waiting for a reply. Vara sat at the room's only table with her head tilted back, a bloody rag held to her nose. Before her was a beautiful compound light microscope. Sherlock's eyes widened and he shoved past John to inspect his new toy. It had his name on it, literally. On the base it read "Sherlock's Goddamn Microscope."

"Thank you, Vara," Sherlock said reverently. She held up a thumb, but didn't dare tip her head back down for fear of spilling any more blood.

"Good Lord," John exclaimed. "What happened?"

"'Nk I bwoke a blood vessel," she muttered.

John jabbed a finger at Sherlock, sobered some by seeing Vara's blood. "No more requests!"

"But I need some slides," he said. John growled, but Vara simply pushed a kitchen bowl full of slides to Sherlock. He grinned and patted Vara on the back.

"Good job," he said.

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise and Vara did her best to beam through the mess. She lowered the cloth and wiped away the worst of the blood. "Glad ya like it. I think I'm going to go lay on the front porch now, if that's alright with you. Christ Almighty, that hurt."

When Vara closed the door behind her Sherlock said quietly, "So she's limited. Hmm."

John stepped close and glowered up at him. "Was that a test?"

"Yes and no. I did need a microscope and they're complicated instruments. It makes me wonder what state Rihat gets in when he creates his monsters. I would bet good money that it weakens him."

A flash of doubt crossed John's face. "Sherlock, what are you planning?"

"To remove a threat, my dear John." With that he squeezed a drop of blood from Vara's discarded rag onto a slide and assumed a familiar position. "Now shut up."


	13. Chapter 13

The next four days were filled with fights and broken dishes. Quiet requests for forgiveness. Longing looks with John pining and Vara flirting and Sherlock becoming increasingly more irritable. Despite his best, if stunted efforts, Sherlock was unable to get any more information from Vara than her original story. The tenacity with which she clung to her convictions was, in his mind, damning in itself. _The lady doth protest too much._

While Sherlock sulked, John took it upon himself to make his own inquiries. He had always known that honey drew more flies than vinegar, though Sherlock would beg to differ. He applied his not inconsiderable flirting talents to winning Vara’s confidence. Though several thousand years of practice could create a rather stubborn spirit and his efforts were falling flat as well.

Vara looked upon their struggles with, in Sherlock’s opinion, a condescending patience. But the thought of confronting the boys and losing the little time she had left with them was unbearable. Even in his frustration, Vara found Sherlock compelling, fascinating, and unwillingly sexy. She would watch as he sat at his new microscope and memorized the way his chest moved as he breathed, the way it would hitch if he’d struck upon something, and then his shoulders sag as he inevitably drew yet another blank. Her blood was just blood, after all. No magic there. All the while, John was a constant comfort, steady and kind. She saw why Sherlock needed him so badly. It was beyond yin and yang, John was his Metatron, the scribe to Sherlock’s incomprehensible brilliance. Through John, Sherlock was able to become a little more human. Sherlock would be cruel. John would sooth him and make apologies. He would withdraw into himself and John would bring him out of his bad mood with promises of small puzzles and gentle reminders to sleep or eat. Vara’s face while she watched their harmony was a study in sorrow. She had once had bonds like they shared, but it had been so long ago that only on seeing John and Sherlock interact could she remember what it was like to love someone. Love, in her experience, only lead to loss and madness. The end of the week couldn’t come soon enough even though it filled her with a sense of profound loneliness.

Sherlock began to take long walks along the cliffs when the walls of the cottage started to feel like they were closing in on him. Vara would watch him stalk past the little parlor window, his hands clasped behind his back, black blazer gaping open over his neatly pressed dress shirt looking for all the world like a city banker on a poorly planned holiday.

“Vara,” John said, breaking her reverie. “darling, we only have one more day here. Is there… is there anything at all you’d like to say before we have to go?”

She turned to see him staring at her with his sad blue eyes. She stepped close to him and reached out to take his hand. He stood still, but caressed her knuckles with his thumb. They stood watching their entwined fingers for a moment before Vara took a long slow breath.

“John,” she said in a whisper, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

John gripped her hand tightly. “We’re already neck-deep here. Keeping us in the dark won’t help.”

Vara laughed. “Oh, John.” She looked up at him and there were tears standing in her eyes, making the colors swirl. “I don’t think it would be a good idea…”

“Please. If not for me, then do it for Sherlock. He’s going mad. There is something, isn’t there? Something that you’re not telling us?”

“You’ve both been skirting around this since day one. Why be blunt now?”

John sighed and looked out the window though Sherlock had already long since heading up the path. “Because I can’t stand to see him so twisted up over this. If you leave us tomorrow without telling him what’s really going on… I don’t know, Vara. I feel like it will mess him up somehow. I don’t know if he can handle that.”

“I told you about the monsters.”

“I know you did, and thank you,” John said. He reached up to hold her shoulders. “What you told him about the things that are out there will help us save lives. Don’t think we don’t appreciate that, but he has good instincts Vara. He feels like there’s more to what’s going on than you’re telling us.” John stepped back and ran his hand through his hair. “I just don’t know what to do here.”

Vara sat on the edge of the bed and put her face in her hands. She sat that way for a while and John gave her time to think over what he’d said. He started a kettle and puttered around, mentally planning the next day when they would pack up and go their separate ways. As sad as that thought was, and it was breaking his heart, someone had to be practical here, and as usual it came down to him.

“Ok,” Vara said.

John turned to face her. He stood, his eyes asking her to go on.

“John,” she said, “I’ll tell you everything, but I want him here too.”

“Of course.”

“Can you promise me something?”

“I’ll try.”

Vara sighed. That was the best she could hope for, she supposed. “Please don’t hate me when I tell you?”

John cleared his throat. “I promise I will do my best.”

* * *

 

Sherlock stomped up the barely discernible sheep path, his slick loafers giving him fits. He had bigger issues on his mind than slipping and falling a hundred feet from a cliff. He wasn’t one to make idle wishes, but he really did wish he could just pin Vara to a wall and do… things… to make her talk. Running out of ideas days ago, he was beginning to get desperate. Her blood had been a huge disappointment. She’d told him that it wouldn’t show him anything special and damn it all she had been right. Tissue samples, every fluid he could talk her into giving, had all drawn the same conclusion. Vara was human. That’s all. He’d tried boiling the blood, burning a sample of hair, and if he’d had some of his chemicals from home he would’ve done more, but he knew the results would have been the same.

Maybe Molly could come down and bring him some more tools. Sherlock huffed in exasperation. Bad idea. Might as well put two cats in a sack and shake it.

Cresting yet another hill, he didn’t notice the black sedan until he was nearly upon it. Sherlock jerked back in surprise, stopping about ten feet short of the car’s driver side door. He mentally kicked himself for being so absorbed in his own head he’d let himself become oblivious to his surroundings.

The back door opened and out stepped a tall man in his late forties, impeccably dressed, and with the carriage of a someone accustomed to power.

“What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his voice loud in the serene country silence.

Mycroft straightened to his full height and stared down his long nose at Sherlock. At nearly ten years his senior, Sherlock’s older brother had always had his thumb on Sherlock’s last and only nerve. And it burned Sherlock to the core that he knew Mycroft was the quicker of the two, but was both too lazy and too materialistically ambitious to do much with it. He was the right hand of nearly every world secret service, but Sherlock felt that was a real step down in status from consulting detective.

“The country doesn’t suit you, little brother,” Mycroft said, his voice cultured and prissy. “You look even worse than usual.”

“And you’ve gained three pounds since I saw you last. Atkins’ not doing the trick?”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted into a half-sneer, half-smile. “We need to talk.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.”

“Mmm, yes. The subject is a delicate one, would you like to take a seat in the car?”

“Rather not if it’s all the same. What subject?”

“A,” Mycroft took out a small notebook from his blazer’s inner pocket, “Vara of Macedonia. I believe you’re staying with her in the village? Cozy romantic get-away, Sherlock, who knew.”

“John’s here too,” Sherlock said, bristling.

“Well, whatever floats your boat, I suppose.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest without thinking. Oops, defensive body posture signaling that Mycroft had hit a nerve. _Damn it._ And from the look on Mycroft’s face, it had been caught. Oh well, in for a penny and all that.

“Get to the point,” Sherlock said.

“The point, dear brother, is that you’re playing with fire. We’ve indulged you more than once, but with this you’ve gone too far.”

“Using the royal ‘we’ now are we?”

Mycroft left off any attempts to soften his tone and growled, “Yes, if you wanted me to get to the point, then I certainly am using the royal ‘we’ and _we_ are not pleased. You ignorant prat, you have no idea with which the forces you are meddling.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue in admonishment. “Now, now brother, mind your blood-pressure. I’d ask how you know her, but that would be inane. She’s told me what she is and how she came here, there’s nothing more you can add.”

“Oh really,” Mycroft purred, “you think that? I’d guess that since you’re still here then she certainly hasn’t told you everything or else you’d have left her to her kin or dumped her in the river along with him.”

“How did you… Of course, you’ve been tailing us. Do you have nothing better to do, Mycroft?”

“Don’t try to change the subject. She’s told you exactly enough to get you and John killed. The only reason you’re still alive is because of my position in Her Majesty’s government. I’ve been talking myself hoarse saving your arse, the least you could do is show some appreciation!”

Mycroft visibly had trouble controlling his emotions. Sherlock felt a tiny spiral of fear begin to curl in his stomach. He dropped his arms.

“Mycroft,” he said, “what’s going on?”

“Now he’s ready to listen to reason. Tell me, did she explain to you why she was in that park?”

“She said she was going to expose to the world the things her family had done and they were trying to stop her.”

“Oh did she? How very civic of her. Let me guess, she was going to save the world like a guardian angel? Heal the sick and save the little animals?”

Sherlock’s heart lurched in his chest. This is going to be really bad, he thought. “Just tell me, Mycroft.”

“Do you remember the night you introduced me to John? You said to him that I was the government.”

“I remember.”

“You were wrong. I’m not the government. They are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dense, Sherlock, it doesn’t work with me. Master Rihat and his kin have been the force behind not only the British monarchy, but nearly every civilization since the fall of Babylon.”

Sherlock blinked in disbelief. “Impossible.”

“You’ve seen what she can do. I can’t imagine you haven’t experimented with her abilities. They’re eternal and powerful, why not rule the world?”

Sherlock's face paled. “So, if Vara had exposed them…”

“Then not only would the UK crumble but the three other top world powers would as well. She could have brought every one of them to their knees. One act, one large grand display of her might would’ve started the ball rolling to undo thousands of years of work.”

“H…how?”

“How did we get here?” Mycroft asked. He straightened the lapel on his thousand pound suit and said, “I’ve not been given all the facts. Despite my position, only the ruling family truly knows the deals made to allow Rihat and his brothers the right to be the real force behind the crown. I’ve made deductions, of course. Our country is small, but strong. We have our resources, but once Britain nearly ruled the world. How? I believe Rihat supplied the crown with unlimited wealth and resources in exchange for a position of ultimate power and the license to do whatever he wants.”

“Like creating beasts? Vara told me about the things he’s done, the things he’s made.”

“Unfortunate but necessary. In times of war desperate measures were taken and some things became uncontrollable. What are the lives of a few compared to the lives of thousands, millions? It’s not for me to ask, nor for you.”

Sherlock leaned weakly against the side of the car. His thoughts careened in his mind. He needed time to process what he had been told. Hearing that everything you’ve ever known was one giant deception perpetrated by a vast global conspiracy wasn’t something you had to deal with every day. Sherlock put his hands over his eyes to block out the world for just a moment while his entire way of life readjusted itself.

“Now that I’ve told you this,” Mycroft said, “I want you to forget it.”

Sherlock looked up, stunned. “Forget it?”

“The only reason I told you is because I know you. You’d have driven yourself mad not understanding all the facts and you can keep a secret, not that anyone would believe you. Without Vara there will be no evidence that any of this ever happened.”

“Without…” Sherlock straightened, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Mycroft what have you done?”

“Saved you, little brother. Saved you from yourself. Again.” With that, Mycroft turned without another world and got back into the car. Sherlock watched the taillights disappear over the hillside in a haze of confusion. Then, as though slapped, he jerked violently and started running hell for leather back to the cottage though he was, of course, far too late.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock slowed as he reached the cottage and focused all of his attention on what he was seeing. If he missed something because of foolish panic, he’d never forgive himself.

Even from a distance he could tell that the door hung open on only one hinge of three. There was evidence of a violent struggle, flowerpots knocked over and disturbed earth leading from the door to a set of tire tracks approximately four metres away. A body had been dragged roughly from the cottage. One large set of footprints were visible between the scuff marks as though the assailant had the body by the back of the arms. Another set of smaller, though still masculine, prints appeared to come from around the back of the house then near the car tracks. And there was blood. A tremendous amount of blood. A small blood soaked hand had gripped the edge of the broken door, fingernails digging in before being ripped away.

Carefully, so not as to disturb the scene, Sherlock eased the door open. The path of blood and heel scuffs stopped at the crumpled form of John Watson. Sherlock’s jaw worked in fury and his eyes blazed as he eased down by John and placed two fingers at his carotid artery. Relief hit him like a hammer when he felt John’s strong pulse. He eased John onto his back and checked for injuries. Despite his shirt front being covered in blood, he only had a lump on the back of his head as if from a sharp blow. It must’ve been a surprise attack since John was incredibly capable in a fight.

Vara was gone as he had known she would be. He also knew the blood was hers, he’d been studying it for nearly a week and had become quite familiar with the sight of it. Sherlock decided right then that Mycroft would pay for this. He had no doubt at all that his brother was to blame for John’s injury and whatever horrific thing they had done to Vara.

After insuring John’s safety, Sherlock eased himself into the chair he had claimed earlier in the week. Judging from the spray pattern of blood on John’s shirt, Vara’s throat had been cut as John was falling from his head wound. Sherlock closed his eyes and saw the scene play out in his mind. John stood facing the door with Vara between him and it, her back to the door as she faced him. They had stood close, close enough that Vara had been unable to see John’s assailant climb in through the back window in utter silence. As John was struck from behind, the front door burst open and the one with huge feet moved with incredible speed to cut her before she’d even had a chance to turn around. A shallow cut would’ve left a small mess, but from the distance the blood had traveled they had cut through her windpipe. With one hand holding the knife, he gathered Vara by the shoulders and started dragging her towards the door. Obviously they couldn’t kill her, but they had badly disabled her. She couldn’t even scream.

So, two men had managed to drive up, surround the house, enter, and attack all without making a sound. It was not outside the realm of possibility, but Sherlock suspected that there were forces at work beyond what normal men could do. Neither Vara nor John had stood a chance.

John moaned and rolled on his side. Sherlock knelt down beside him, his hand helping hold up John’s head.

“Be still,” Sherlock said, “you probably have a concussion. Can you open your eyes?”

“Mmm, lights…”

Sherlock gently laid John’s head back down and dashed up to kill the lights. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and rearranged John on the floor.

“There we go. John, let me know if you’re going to vomit.”

“’M not… W-where’s Vara?” John asked weakly.

Sherlock sat on the floor, not caring about the blood that instantly started soaking through his pants.

“I’m sorry John, she’s been taken.”

“Taken? What do you…”

“It’s my fault. I allowed myself to become distracted. Mycroft he was here. He...,” Sherlock broke off. “He, uh, had us followed and told them where we were. Vara’s family, they took her.”

The breath went out of John and he sagged back against the floor. They stayed quiet for a while. Sounds from the nearby village came in through the broken door. Night insects slowly began their evening chorus and somewhere over the hills a sheep cried plaintively for its shepherd.

“She was going to tell us,” John said after a while. “I asked her and when you came back she was going to tell us why she was really running.”

“Mycroft told me. If he was telling the truth, and that’s a big if, then it isn’t good.”

John closed his eyes, tiny sparks danced behind his eyelids. His felt like a bomb had gone off in his head.

“Tell me,” he said, rubbing his index finger and thumb together, the stickiness of Vara’s blood turning his stomach. He could feel it soaking through his shirt, cold and wet.

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes. “If,” Sherlock began hesitantly, “Mycroft was being honest, then Vara’s exposure of her family would’ve brought the British Empire to its knees. Along with a few other major governments. Basically, the entire world could’ve gone to shit.”

John sighed. Total mental overload. He decided to start absorbing the thought of Vara being a traitor later. Maybe after he had washed all of her blood off.

“Help me up would you, Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock cautiously eased John into a seated position and, lacking any options, simply pulled John against his side and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. John only gagged a little at the change in elevation, Sherlock was proud of him.

“You have at least a grade three concussion, John,” Sherlock said. “We should probably get you to hospital.”

“Ugh, don’t. That means I’d have to stand up. Pretty sure I’ll die.”

Sherlock laughed. “God,” he said, “look at us. Covered in blood and concussed.”

“Typical week,” John said smiling despite his pain. He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Oh no you don’t,” Sherlock said nudging John’s head back up. “You’re not sleeping until we get you checked out. Come on now, let’s get this over with.”

Sherlock pulled John to his feet. John was very considerate to not vomit directly on Sherlock’s shoes.

* * *

 

Sherlock had packed. It took John a moment to absorb the miracle before him, but while he was taking a bath (Sherlock refused to let him take a shower for fear of him falling), Sherlock had actually prepared them to leave. Was everything stuffed haphazardly into one giant trash bag? Yes, but John could sort that out later.

“I’ve already loaded up my microscope and the computers, just this to go. Are you ready?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” John said, “I feel better now. Uh, Sherlock, where are we going? You said it wasn’t safe to go back to the flat.”

Sherlock frowned in confusion at John and started dragging the bag to the busted front door. “We’re going to go save Vara, I would’ve thought that was obvious. Well, after we get you seen to.”

“Save? How… Wait, what?”

Huffing in frustration, Sherlock dropped the bag. “It’s simple, John. Vara is our… she’s…”

“Our friend?”

“Yes, that. We can’t leave her to the mercy of Rihat and the others. Besides, I don’t trust my brother’s abilities to keep us safe. We have to end this one way or another. I know you’re not well so if you want to sit this one out?”

“Oh, that is not going to happen, Sherlock. But there are a few minor problems.”

“Like?”

John stepped around the god-awful mess he and Vara had made and helped Sherlock lift the bag out the door.

“Like,” he said, “we don’t know where they are. I’m guessing Mycroft still has us under surveillance so even if we did know where they were keeping her, they’ll know we are coming. Oh, and if it is Vara’s family we're going up against then that’s like us attacking Superman with a rusty spoon. What, exactly, are we going to do when and if we find her?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up into that dreaded I-know-but-you-don’t grin of his and said, “As usual John you see but do not observe. I know exactly where Vara is and have a pretty good idea how to stop her family. I’ll need your help, of course.”

After writing a hasty message to the cottage owners and leaving an extra hundred quid to help cover the cleaning and repairs, Sherlock got behind the wheel of Mrs. Hudson’s car and headed out.

It was very early in the morning and before long the sun would be rising. John looked over at Sherlock. The dashboard light cast Sherlock's face in harsh shadows.

“You know,” John said, “I’m surprised at you. Riding in to save the damsel in distress. Seems a little reckless. Illogical even.”

“There’s still a great deal you don’t know about me, John Watson,” Sherlock said. He darted a quick look at John and continued driving north.

“Well,” John started, “I just figured you’d be mad at her. Bringing down the government, that’s not exactly a good thing.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective. Just because Mycroft’s been told that would be the result, doesn’t mean it actually would be. You have to look at the source of his information. I imagine Rihat would say anything to keep himself in power.”

“You’re not just saying that because Mycroft irritates you, are you?”

“Would I do that?”

John laughed then gripped his head in pain. “God, this is awful. Feels like a hangover without all the fun bits. So, you going to tell me your brilliant plan?”

“Hmm. Later. There’s a hospital about ten miles from here. You rest, no wait, don’t rest, you may get a blood clot and die. Just sit there and shut up.”

Ah, John thought, that’s the Sherlock I’ve come to know and… tolerate.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now acquired the services of an amazing beta in the form of one of my loveliest friends. She has performed above and beyond the call of editing duty and I'm not sharing her. She's mine, all mine! Cue maniacal laughter!

The GP told John to stay awake for the next fourteen hours, but he was otherwise given a clean bill of health. Sleeping would've been impossible anyway. What with Sherlock talking to himself in sudden bursts that jolted John out of anything resembling restfulness.

Morning had come on their long drive back to London and the sunlight burned John's eyes fiercely. While he squinted and moaned, Sherlock fairly vibrated with excitement.

"You're doing that thing again," John said, shortly.

"What thing? I'm not doing a thing."

"Yes, you are. Vara is in danger, Sherlock. You shouldn't look as if you've just won the lottery."

"She won't be in danger for long. Worrying isn't going to help, therefore I'm not going to."

Sherlock pulled up to a red brick building barely big enough to call a garage. They were in a rougher area of London than John normally frequented, though he could easily imagine Sherlock skulking around the dilapidated homes that could've been opium dens in the 1800's.

"What are we doing here?" John asked.

"I need you to go in lieu of me and buy everything on this list," Sherlock said, as he handed John a crumpled sheet of paper. "I called ahead so it should be ready, I just need you to double-check."

"And why aren't you going in?"

"Well, they know me around here. At least, they think they do. Since we can't go back to the flat I couldn't use my usual disguise so I said that my associate would come pick everything up. That's you."

"Disguise?"

"Crack-head. Blends in well down here. Now, do hurry, we're on a schedule."

"Any chance of you telling me what's going on?"

"All in due time. Just a few more stops and we will be ready for either a heroic rescue, or an utter cock-up."

John smiled begrudgingly, something only Sherlock could make him do despite himself.

"Right," John said. "And after what feels like a very illegal activity, what are we doing?"

Sherlock impatiently drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "We, or rather I, convince Molly to lend us some liquid nitrogen then we break into Buckingham Palace." Sherlock checked his watch. "Any day now, John. Go. Now."

* * *

 

Molly Hooper, forensic pathologist at Saint Bartholomew's hospital, had known Sherlock years longer than John, but had no better understanding of the eccentric private detective than he did. If anything, she knew him less since she insisted on dashing her unrequited love against the rock wall Sherlock had built around his heart. It was like those odd people who fell in love with bridges or buildings.

 _Good for them_ , John supposed, _for what it was worth_.

She had agreed to meet them round back of the hospital with a large canister of liquid nitrogen and the gear needed to handle the dangerous substance safely. Sherlock barely had to flirt over the phone. He had a way of pitching his voice just so that even John felt a tiny involuntary shiver go down his spine. Poor Molly had been defenseless.

Molly waved a little too enthusiastically when she noticed Sherlock pull up to the curb. John might as well have been on the moon for all the attention she paid him.

Sherlock popped the boot lid and climbed out, his long lean body dwarfing Molly. "Right. Hello. Is this all you had?"

Molly blinked rapidly and stuttered, "Y-yes, it's all I could find short notice. I mean, not that I mind. I like helping you."

" _Wonderful_ ," Sherlock said, very pleased. He scooped up the metal canister and gently placed it in the boot, mindful to keep his hands only on the safe upper area of the flask. "And the cryotherapy gun?"

"Uh, yeah I got a few of those," she said as she fumbled in her oversized crocheted bag for the sports bottle sized metal cans with long nozzles and black plastic triggers. John knew that cryo guns were commonly used to treat skin conditions like warts and moles. He looked at Sherlock's gleeful face and started to get a tiny inkling of what he was planning.

"Sherlock," John said, "are you planning on…"

"Freezing them. Yes," Sherlock said, "it's obvious isn't it?"

"Freeze who?" Molly interjected.

Sherlock ignored her and kept on, "It all goes back to the sun. Vara said it herself, when she wanted to sleep she threw herself into a glacier. When she attacked Ubar she froze him. When the authorities found Vara she was just beginning to thaw from being frozen herself. They need the sun to survive, heat, solar radiation. Take that away and they're just a human popsicle."

"And how, exactly, are we going to freeze them? With this stuff I assume?" John asked.

"Who's Vara? The frozen body from last week?" Molly's voice trembled. "What are you doing now, Sherlock?"

"Oh, Molly," Sherlock said, surprisingly sweetly, "don't worry about us. We have it all under control." He leaned forward and pecked a kiss upon her cheek, making her blush bright red to the roots of her hair. "You've been a huge help. Now come on, John, we're nearly ready."

John nodded goodbye at the stunned pathologist and realized that Sherlock hadn't answered his question. Which was only slightly more worrying than the fact that Sherlock was humming cheerfully to himself while deftly driving through the busy London traffic.

"Right," John said eventually, "care to tell me more about the Buckingham Palace thing?"

Sherlock sighed and pulled into a spot near Angelo's, the only restaurant he actually frequents.

"John," Sherlock said as he took off his seatbelt, "let's get you something to eat so that maybe your brain will start working again and you'll stop asking me stupid questions."

With that, Sherlock left John sitting alone in the car. "Perfect," John said to himself, "just perfect. Let's break into Buckingham and not tell your partner in crime anything. Not like I'm an officer in the army or a trained doctor…"

John continued grumbling to himself as he stomped into the small Italian restaurant. Angelo, the owner, always kept one particular table by the window reserved for them. He was a good bloke, even if he insisted on thinking that John and Sherlock were a couple. Just because they were rarely apart, bickered constantly, and would do anything for each other didn't mean they were a couple.

After ordering, John folded his hands on the table before him and stared at Sherlock. He quirked one blonde eyebrow and tried to be patient. Sherlock nibbled delicately on a breadstick and said between bites, "Remember where Vara was found?"

"You said Saint James's Park."

"And where is it?"

"In London."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved his breadstick in irritation. "You don't say? It's in central London, bordered to the west by the Palace. The park is around 60 acres, she could've been dumped anywhere but she was nearest the Palace. Her core temperature rose steadily from the moment she was discovered. By calculating the degrees it rose between her discovery and awakening, she had to have originated very close to where she was found. Taking into account Rihat's political position and hold over the royal family itself, it stands to reason he resides in the Palace."

"There are other buildings near that park…"

"He's the most powerful man in Britain, if I were him I'd be there."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock's reasoning seemed sound and he didn't doubt his calculations. But Buckingham bloody Palace…

"Ok then," John said, "the stuff I picked up at that garage?"

"You saw. Gun parts, explosive components. We need to find a way to use the liquid nitrogen as a weapon against Rihat once we break into the Palace. Should be simple enough."

"Ah. Well. When you make it sound like that I don't know how we could possibly fail. Do they have wine here by the bottle?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Sherlock ran one finger between his white tuxedo collar and his neck. It was a little tight, but there was no helping it.  Last minute tuxedos were about as good as to be expected. Sherlock always kept a tailored wardrobe, but it was deliberately simple so he wouldn't have to waste undo brain power on something as inane as clothing. In contrast, John looked annoyingly comfortable. The black tux suited him surprisingly well and he carried himself a little straighter with it on. He nearly looked tall.

"Don't forget," Sherlock whispered to John, "we're on a mission. No  _mingling_ ," he said with a sneer. As chance would have it, the Palace was hosting a charity gala in honor of Prince Philip's birthday. Invitations were more than just fancy cards though, each had a microchip embedded within the gilt edging and guests were required to show two forms of I.D. as verification. John had wondered how he planned to get them into the party, but Sherlock surprised him by simply pick pocketing two inebriated guests in a nearby pub. That Sherlock had then locked the two men in a closet, bound and gagged, was a detail John needn't worry himself about.

John's eyes followed a long, lean guest, her backless dress slung very low over swaying hips. "Oh," John said, "but just a little mingling wouldn't hurt…"

Sherlock growled in frustration and dragged John to a less populated corner to keep him out of trouble. The receiving room they had entered was large enough to swallow their entire flat several times over. Somewhere in the throng a string quartet was playing Bach's Brandenburg Concerto, but they were barely audible through the noise of rustling skirts and excited chatter. Massive crystal chandeliers cast every guest in a warm golden glow. Sherlock assumed that some people, stupid people, would find all of this very romantic. He only had eyes for the two large security guards meticulously checking every guest's identification with a handheld scanning device. That could be a problem. While the invitations were good enough to get them through the front gate, no amount of acting skills would convince the guards he was a portly red-headed man from Dorset and John was a tall Spaniard from Ibiza, as their stolen photo I.D.'s showed.

"I need to get 'round to the kitchens," Sherlock murmured. "The bag of our… things… will be waiting for us there."

Snatching a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, John looked up at Sherlock in surprise. "So," he said, "that's what you were up to while I was getting the tuxes. How'd you convince someone to help us?"

"You can bribe anyone if the price is high enough."

"Well, I imagine so…" John trailed off, then squinted at Sherlock in suspicion. "What bribe? What did you do?"

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. "It was a trifle. The painting that idiotic Austrian gave us as a bonus for finding his family heirloom that had been shoved up a goose's arse by the plumber."

John pursed his lips in fury. "That," he said through gritted teeth, "was a Picasso sketch and it was part of our retirement fund, you moron!"

"Shh," Sherlock admonished. "Don't make a scene. I'll get you another one. We have bigger problems, like those guards. Now, our associate," Sherlock nodded his head towards a tall young man with dark hair, "is going to cause a mild distraction and… here we go…"

As if on cue, the waiter Sherlock had conscripted artfully stumbled upon the train of a woman's gown and, with admirable grace, dumped the entirety of his canapé tray down another lady's bosom. The room erupted in squeals and gasps at the utter horror of it all. Despite his blushing apologies, the man would surely be fired. John would've felt bad if he hadn't known the seemingly clumsy waiter possessed a painting worth more than his entire yearly income.

When everyone turned to stare, most importantly the security guards, Sherlock eased one arm around John's shoulders and casually steered him through a discreet service door. Once through, Sherlock ripped off his bowtie and, from an inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket, produced two burgundy ties. He thrust one at John tossed his jacket behind a potted plant.

"Hurry," Sherlock said "we only have a few moments before security notices."

John followed Sherlock's lead and shrugged out of his jacket. "I have a question," he said.

"What?"

"Won't Mycroft still have his men following us? I mean, all of this sneaking around and disguises is fun and everything, but we haven't exactly been covering our tracks. Won't they know we're coming?"

Sherlock finished knotting his tie and smiled. "Oh, I'm counting on that."

John paused, his hands tangled in his tie as he stared at Sherlock.

"How else are we going to find them, John? We can't make it too easy for them, of course. A little subterfuge never hurt anyone."

Sherlock stepped forwards and finished John's tie. "All we have to do is follow the wait staff to the kitchens then collect the weapons. If we act like we belong here, no one will say anything. Are you alright to do this?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine, stop fussing." John batted Sherlock's hands away and took a steadying breath. The door swung open and a pretty woman in black slacks and burgundy tie like their own nodded in their direction and moved confidently down the hall. Sherlock smiled at John and they turned to follow.

The palace was immense and the walk from the entry room they'd started in to the kitchens was a long one. There are larger royal estates around the world, but Buckingham holds a grandeur second to none. Ceilings soared overhead adorned with frescos and buttresses, rich carpets softened every footfall, and even Sherlock looked slightly impressed at the sheer opulence surrounding them. Very few people met them along the way, which was unnervingly convenient.

The woman pushed through a pair of double swinging doors and the noise of cookery erupted through the threshold. John met Sherlock's eyes briefly and, straightening their shoulders, they plowed in. Sherlock quickly snatched up a half-empty hors d'oeuvre trey, John grabbed an ice bucket, and on light feet they navigated through the riotous palace staff. Cooks bustled over massive stoves, the rich smells of perfectly prepared meals wafted up from steaming pots and ovens. They were simply two more members of a large staff going about their business. Nothing to see here, just moving right along.

Sherlock spotted a bank of cabinets on a far wall and, near the bottom, one door propped open ever so slightly. Not waiting to see if John was following, he casually walked over, opened the cabinet, and slung the black duffle bag over his shoulder. Sherlock sat the canapé tray down and sauntered out of the kitchen as if he owned the joint.

Thankfully, John had been right on Sherlock's heels and after ditching the bucket, he followed Sherlock into the nearest empty room, the first he tried, actually. Sherlock dropped the bag carefully on a stuffed leather sofa and pulled out two shoulder holsters.

"Here," Sherlock said, setting aside one holster for John. "I made a few things while you were out."

"Between the bribery?"

The holster was a shoulder rig meant to give the owner a cross-chest draw, but instead of a regular pistol it held a modified cryo gun and a series of syringes encased in insulating rubber. The cryo gun's bulky plastic trigger and nozzle had been replaced with a long, terrifying looking needle and plunger.

"Jesus Christ," John exhaled. "What the hell have you done here?"

Sherlock beamed with pride. "That," he said, "is my nitrogen quick delivery system. Using it on the extremities would be pointless, but if used on the brain stem or anywhere on the head, it should freeze the immediate area rendering the 'nipper incapacitated. What do you think?"

"Brilliant. Really brilliant, Sherlock. But how are we going to get close enough to use them?"

"Leave that to me. Put this on." He handed John a new black leather jacket and pulled out a twin for himself.

John walked to the door and looked out, checking left and right. "Have you noticed," he said, "how there's no one about? I mean, I'm sure a lot are at the party, but shouldn't there be maids and what not?"

"Hmm. I imagine they know we're here and are waiting to see what we're going to do."

"And, besides getting captured, what  _are_  we going to do?"

"Well, I was thinking…"

Sherlock broke off as the door swung quietly open. In stepped a beautiful little boy, no more than ten years old. His skin shone like alabaster and his eyes were hidden by stylish dark sunglasses, but Sherlock knew that behind them they shone like a rainbow.

"Gentlemen," the boy said, his voice high and clear, "your presence has been requested by Master Rihat. If you would be so kind as to follow me, I will lead the way."

"Oh, God," John breathed out. He looked at Sherlock in dismay. A child? Vara had said nothing about one of them being a child. Sherlock shrugged, his eyes just a little too wide.

"By all means, lead on," Sherlock said.

* * *

They traveled down, first through a series of elevators and finally a stone spiral staircase that was carved from the very bedrock of London itself. John couldn't imagine how far down they had come, and while the thought of all the tons of earth above them should've made him nervous, he merely wished there had been another elevator so they could've avoided all the damn stairs.

There had been times, during the war, where John would sit on his cot at the end of a day filled with blood and screams, futile efforts to save some poor eighteen year-old kid with his legs blown off or his spine snapped by the concussion of a roadside IED, and he would allow himself to feel for one minute. Just a minute. Sixty seconds to let the horror of what he'd seen pass through him like a rush of ice water through his veins. Sometimes he'd weep, other times he'd scream into a pillow so no one would hear. After his minute was over, he'd stop feeling and be Captain Watson again. He learned the art of self-compartmentalization. His chin would raise, his back straighten, and though there may be tears drying on his cheeks, he wouldn't panic or rage. Over time, this became second nature and in situations of extreme stress, he would be so utterly in control as to seem casual. He knew he was walking downward into a battle field. It would be bloody. Vara would, in all likelihood, be terribly wounded and in pain. So, even though he knew they were walking into a trap they may not escape, his step was light and his mind was crystal clear from any worry or doubt that may cost him precious seconds when things started to get really hairy.

"So," John said to the boy descending before them, "what's your name?"

"Kuri."

"Kuri? That's nice. How far down are we going?"

"Not much farther, Doctor Watson."

John nodded to himself. He knew Sherlock would be counting the steps, memorizing the turns they had taken. As long as they stuck together, they would be fine. Maybe if he told himself that enough times, he would believe it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any marked improvement in the text is, yet again, thanks to my incredible editors. Thank you, you gorgeous cupcakes! Side note: I've fallen into the soft, fluffy abyss that is JohnLock fanfic. The question now is, can I resist the urge? Hmm!

**Chapter 17**

Finally, the stairs ended and opened into a small chamber. Unassuming wooden doors and a pair of flickering torches were the only decoration. Sherlock observed the walls over the torches, they were blackened from years—no, centuries of soot. He was here. Rihat.

He and John shared a barely perceptible nod and then Sherlock turned to Kuri. "Is this it?" he asked.

The boy nodded and pushed open the doors, straining a little under their weight. Sherlock stepped close and peered over Kuri's head. Wind stirred his hair, and the smell of burning wood and damp decay made his nose wrinkle. It wasn't disgusting, just disturbing. Old things lived in this chamber. Darkness prevented any chance of getting a good view, but he could tell they stood at the foot of a massive cavern, the floor uneven and cluttered with fallen stalactites. Far ahead, maybe three hundred metres, a blur of light shone as the room's only beacon.

He raised one arm and pointed over Kuri's shoulder.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Our master," Kuri replied, his voice reverent as he stared into the darkness.

Sherlock pointed up into the darkness. "And that?"

Kuri angled his body out of the door to frowned up, and in one fluid motion, Sherlock drew his cryo gun, jammed the needle into the base of Kuri's skull, and pushed the plunger. Kuri jerked once and fell limply to the floor, his sunglasses tumbling off to show wide open eyes swirling with blues and golds. Sherlock scooped him up and placed him gently on the floor at the base of the stairs.

"Be very quiet," he whispered to John. "That cavern will echo every sound we make. We must be careful."

John knelt beside him next to Kuri. "I can't believe you did that," he hissed. "He's a child!"

"Don't be stupid. No, he isn't. Look at his eyes. He's a 'nipper. He's thousands of years old. I can't help that they changed him when he was little."

Running a hand through his hair, John nodded. "Yeah, you're right. But that was your plan to get close to them? 'Hey, look over there?', then whammo?"

"It worked. Don't judge me."

"Right. Now what?"

"Now we go in, get Vara, and take out anyone who tries to stop us."

"I hope there's more to the plan than you're telling me."

"Uh, no, not really. If anything comes up, I'll let you know."

With that, Sherlock stood and looked back out of the doorway. If there was anyone lurking in the darkness, they'd never know it until it was too late. There was nothing for it; they'd have to swagger in as if they had an army behind them. He did have John, so that was about as close as he could get.

He pulled the torches from their brackets and handed one to John. He raised a finger to his lips and started into the cavern. Darkness surrounded them instantly. The pathetic light of their torches reached only the immediate area around them, scarcely above their heads and just in front of their feet. The shadows swallowed everything else. The breeze that had whistled through the doorway died away, and the air was heavy and damp in their lungs.

Sherlock placed his feet carefully, the slick bottoms of his dress shoes entirely unsuited to this kind of environment. Every unbalanced rock and too-heavy breath echoed alarmingly. Of course, they knew he was coming, but stumbling towards them in the dark put them both at a distinct disadvantage. Rather the point, he supposed.

Suddenly a soft sound whispered out from the distant pool of light. A flute. Wooden, Sherlock guessed. Nothing more than a hollow stick with a few holes drilled in. The notes were off-key and raised the hair on the back of his neck. The light around John wavered as he failed to repress a shudder. Sherlock glanced back at him but couldn't quite muster up a look of reassurance.

That's what this whole thing needs, Sherlock thought to himself. A bloody soundtrack.

Soon the blur of light before them brightened, and what had appeared as a shapeless lump surrounded by pitiful torchlight revealed itself to be a sandstone throne, grotesque and melted, the edges worn smooth by eons of use. The arms and seat were sunk deeply into the rock, and once-intricate carvings were nothing more than shadows. Within those depressions, a dark, cloaked figure sat slim and straight, its face hidden from the feeble light. At the foot of the throne, a huddled lump of rags shivered with every fitful breeze.

The discordant flute music broke off abruptly as they came close. Sherlock stopped, and John drew up beside him.

Sherlock took a long look around. "Bit of a cliché, this," he drawled, voice echoing loudly through the cavern.

"Every cliché must have an origin, Mr. Smartass," said a deep, rough voice. From behind the throne rose a hulking figure in a linen robe. One leg dragging, the man came around to face them, a large bone in his hand, probably a section of tibia, was the off-key flute. He tapped it against his crippled right thigh and smiled wickedly.

"Not so smart now, are we?" he chided.

Sherlock could see John's fingers tighten around the base of his torch. Mustn't do to panic when faced with a man you had decapitated.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "You're looking well, Ubar."

Ubar cleared his throat roughly, a wet, gravelly sound that made Sherlock's chest ache. "Just a few bits missing," he croaked. "Be right as rain when they're back. Not that you'll be around to see my recovery, you pathetic—"

Ubar jerked and seemed to shrink. Cowering, he glanced at the seated figure, then scuttled silently back behind the throne. The figure had given no signal to silence Ubar, but he had responded like a dog being kicked by its master. Nonverbal communication. Interesting.

Seconds ticked by. John shifted uncomfortably beside him. He supposed eons of life didn't give one a sense of urgency. Fine. He didn't have eternity and he was sick to death of playing nice.

"You have an associate of mine," Sherlock announced. Keeping his eyes firmly on the cloaked figure, he bent to lay his torch on the ground. Dampness made it hiss, but it stayed lit. He had a feeling he'd be needing his hands free.

The figure moved ever so slightly, nothing more than a twitch.

"I want her back," he continued firmly, deliberately pushing his luck.

The figure took a breath, the chest stirring. Raising one arm, it pushed back the cowl of its hood to expose what could technically be called a face. Where Vara had exuded warmth and humanity, this thing was utterly alien. The bones of its skull pressed tautly against translucent skin. Veins running like black spider webs throbbed visibly across the hard expanse of its forehead, and jet-black eyes gleamed out from dark, sunken sockets. This thing had left its humanity so far behind so long ago that Sherlock knew within a moment that there would be no reasoning, no logic he could apply that would get them out of that cavern alive if this thing did not wish it. Even Ubar in his impotent rage held passion that could be manipulated. Not so for this abomination.

John swallowed audibly, but Sherlock dared not take his eyes from the monster. Every instinct screamed for him to grab John's torch and throw it in its face. To burn it. Remove it from the earth and salt the ground it stood upon.

His face must have betrayed some small emotion, for its paper-thin lips curled slightly, the skin over its jaw twisting grotesquely.

"I am Master Rihat," it intoned in barely a whisper. "And you are the fool who would take my Vara from me."

Blind, reckless fear flashed through Sherlock. He leaned back, his body betraying the desperate urge to get away from the creature before him. John's hand reached out and settled gently on the small of his back. He wrenched his eyes from Rihat and looked to his friend. John stared straight ahead, giving away nothing, prepared for anything. His hand on Sherlock's back anchored him, steadied him.

Fighting for control, Sherlock looked back at Rihat and nodded. "I suppose I am," he challenged.

"Oh?" Rihat tilted his head with birdlike fascination. His dark eyes narrowed, the iris still visible through the tissue-thin eyelids. Without another word, Rihat stretched out one leg and, with a bony foot, casually flipped back the cloak covering the body at his feet. If they hadn't spent so much time with Vara, they never would have recognized her. Her body was bent forward at an unnatural angle, almost in supplication. And her arms… He felt the gorge rise in his throat. Rihat had somehow sunk her arms up to the elbows into the very stone below their feet. Even her knees had been sunk into the earth, preventing her from moving in any way. Hair matted with blood covered her face, but Sherlock could see her cheek pressed hard against the floor.

John's hand balled into a fist at Sherlock's back, fingers tightening on his leather jacket.

"What have you done to her?" John choked out.

Rihat flicked his eyes to John. His brow furrowed in confusion. "I've saved her."

Sherlock's jaw dropped. "T-this is saving her?"

"Don't you see?" Rihat soothed with unnerving compassion, "She exists. Without my benevolence, she would have done a most horrid thing: destroyed herself, and us with her."

Rihat reached down and tangled his long, spidery white hand into Vara's hair. With a single tremendous yank, he pulled Vara out of the stone floor. The earth moved around her limbs like water, then settled as though she had never been there.

Sherlock could now see she that she was, thankfully, unconscious. A filthy rag had been tied around her neck to staunch the flow of blood, but she hadn't healed well. Livid red corners of her wound peeked out around the bandage, and the front of her dress was soaked black with immortal blood.

Rihat leaned Vara's body against his leg and petted her head absently. "You are tiny," Rihat explained patiently, "and it is hard for you to see. I pity you. My darling love wished only to die. She has thus longed for nigh unto two hundred years now, but I will not have it. She is mine, and it is my wish that she live. If you care for her at all, you will leave this place, and her, to me."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment to give himself time to think. He could not let himself be swayed to believe or disbelieve what Rihat said simply because he appeared repulsive. Was Vara suicidal? To the point of ruination not only of herself, but of her relatives and possibly even England as well? Her actions had been confusing—frantic, even. Of course, with all the attacks, they were all a bit frantic. But this? If even a part of what Mycroft had said was true, then she could have been bent on a kamikaze mission. Maybe. But how could it be, she seemed so alive! Any moment not spent in reflection she spent singing, dancing, flirting outrageously with John, and teasing Sherlock. Yes, there were times when he would look at her when she sat quietly and, while she may have looked a little sad, she didn't look as though she were ready to give up on life. No. He could be oblivious—and God knows that with women, that was doubly true—but he would have caught onto something as huge as suicidal depression.

"No," Sherlock stated flatly. Not Vara. Not  _his_  Vara.

Rihat raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You do not believe me? Well, then, let us hear it from her mouth."

With a violent shiver, Vara's eyes flew open and her mouth gasped desperately for breath. She looked around herself at the cavern, then up at Rihat. Had her throat not been so damaged, she would have screamed.

The creature tightened its hand in her hair and gave her head a little shake.

"There we are." Rihat smiled. "Now be good and tell the men how naughty you've been."

Vara's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Then she finally saw them. A high-pitched cry whined out from her ravaged throat. Sherlock's heart twisted as she jerked and fought against Rihat's hand, her every movement terrified.

She moved her mouth silently. Run, she tried to say.  _Run._

"That won't do…" Rihat pulled the bandage from her neck. John gagged quietly. Thankfully, Rihat ran his hand gently over the gaping slash, and the skin mended in its wake. Smooth white skin now under bloody stains. She quieted under his touch, but her eyes remained locked with theirs, the panic still making her irises swirl and flash in myriad colors.

"You were going to kill yourself, weren't you, Vara?" Rihat prompted. His head tilted unnaturally as he looked at her. "But we do not die. That was very bad of you."

Her eyes filled with tears and she dropped her head, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze.

And she… nodded.

"No," John breathed. "Vara. My God."

"So you see," Rihat purred, "she has a vile tongue meant only for lies. She would have found a way to expose our secrets and then kill herself. Such a terrible disappointment. You know our secrets, though, do you not? You men. Human. You would better serve our beloved Vara as a pet. Would you like that, Vara? You so loved your dragons. I think Mr. Holmes would be a magnificent beast."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

John's torch clattered to the floor. He wasn't entirely sure he could reach Rihat in time to stop whatever monstrous thing he planned to do to Sherlock, but he sure as shit wasn't going to stand by while his friend was destroyed.

Covering her face in grief, Vara curled against Rihat's leg. There was no help coming from her. He looked to Sherlock. Rarely had he seen Sherlock in fear. He saw it now. As great a man as he was, and as fierce a fighter, Sherlock was, above all, a man of the mind. The monster before them was beyond logical comprehension.

Sherlock struggled and, with obvious determination, met John's eyes.

He wasn't exactly calm, but he was better. Sometimes stubbornness is a virtue.

Sherlock looked back at Rihat. "I'm afraid," he said evenly, "that you would find me a bothersome beast."

Rihat made a noise like shattering glass that was apparently intended to be laughter. He twirled a piece of Vara's hair between his fingers.

"You would be surprised, Mr. Holmes, how easy it is to cow even a bothersome beast. Time and determination can achieve incredible things. I have time. And I am determined."

"I don't doubt that. I'd like to speak to Vara."

"Would you? Why?"

"You want to keep her alive. I want to keep her alive. Perhaps I could convince her—"

Rihat made a tight fist in Vara's hair, pulling her face up to the light. Tears streaked her cheeks; despite her preternatural skin, she looked ravaged.

"Does it look like she can be convinced?" Rihat hissed. He frowned, his eyes narrowing. "There is nothing  _you_  can do. If you will not be tamed and you cannot stop my Vara from ending herself, what good are you then, little human?"

John's stomach twisted in fear.  _Maybe_  if he could get one of the loose syringes out and  _mayb_ e if he were fast enough and  _maybe_  if he could throw it just perfectly and jab it right into that godawful creature's face…

Rihat's eyes snapped to John as though he could read his mind. Shit.

"You," Rihat whispered. "You smell of her. What were you doing with Vara that you should have her stink on you?"

Sherlock raised both hands and stepped forward, placing himself slightly in front of John.  _Damn him_ , John thought.  _F_ _or a man who was never a soldier_ _,_ _he sure is keen to throw himself on a grenade_.

"This is between you and me, Rihat."

Sitting back in his throne, Rihat rolled his eyes in a surprisingly human fashion. He released Vara with a shove, pushed her stumbling towards Sherlock.

"I am suddenly reminded why you were never allowed friends, Vara. Your taste has always been abysmal. No helping it, I suppose. Let it serve as a lesson to you."

Vara collapsed to her knees. "No!" Her voice cracked.

"Fuck this," John snarled, reaching into his jacket for a syringe.

"Now, don't be hasty," Sherlock warned quietly. He reached out a hand to stop John, meeting his eyes briefly. He looked concerned, but not frightened any longer, as though he had made his mind up about something. Like he had a plan. John would remember that later. It was good that Sherlock hadn't been frightened.

Rihat stood and casually flicked his wrist in Sherlock's direction, not even bothering to glance at the man as he did so.

Sherlock dropped to his knees, then fell forward, dead before he ever hit the ground.

Screaming, Vara threw herself at him, covering Sherlock with her body. John stood frozen, his breath leaving his body as though he had been punched.

"No," he croaked. "No, no, no. What have you done…?"

Rihat gazed at Vara with contempt, black veins pulsing rapidly across his face. "Stop your wailing," he commanded. Then he sighed. "Ubar, take them to a cell. Let her watch her friend rot. How many times must we do this, Vara, before you learn?"

Ubar lurched around the throne, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. Vara sobbed and clutched at Sherlock as the hulking creature lifted her away. Then, Vara gripped tightly in one oversized hand, Ubar grabbed Sherlock's lifeless body by the arm and started dragging him through the ruined cave.

John was in shock, unable to absorb what had happened.

He followed without being told.

Chuckling to himself, Ubar kicked open a rough-planked door. John couldn't recall how they had gotten here, though he thought they had walked for a while. Straining to see in the low light, he had kept his eyes on Sherlock's face. Ubar roughly shoved Vara into a dank room barely ten feet by ten feet. She collapsed, her screams of grief piercing the tiny chamber. Reaching out with his free hand, Ubar grasped John by the lapel and hurled him in after her. He stumbled and hit the wall. Sherlock's body was tossed in last. Vara gathered him as well as she could into her lap, bending over his face. Ubar spit disdainfully in their direction, and closed the door. John heard a bar come down, locking them in.

John slid down the wall, his feet spayed out, Sherlock and Vara by his knees.

Fitful light came in through a grate over the doorway, enough to see the pale curve of Sherlock's cheek. His eyes were still open in mild surprise.

"Fix him," John whispered.

Vara shook her head, her face buried in Sherlock's neck. "I can't," she moaned through muffled sobs. "I can't, I can't, I can't …"

John roughly pushed her up by her shoulders and shook her. "You can! You can do anything! Now put him back!"

John gasped a sob, the finality of Sherlock's death hitting him.

His friend. His best friend.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"You fix him right now!"

Vara fell back over Sherlock's body and laid her head on his still chest. "I can't fix this, I-I never could before. I've tried … it never worked." She looked at John, her eyes pleading for him to understand.

He hated her. This had all happened because of  _her_. Sherlock would still be here if not for her.

Sometimes it is only when you lose someone that you realize how vital that person is to your life. Sherlock was more than John's best friend. He was quite nearly John's savior. Sherlock had brought him up out of the darkness of his meaningless life. The war had done terrible things to John; he had begun to lose hope long before he'd even been sent back to England. And when he'd finally arrived home, the long days of nothingness began to swallow him. Then he'd met Sherlock and, more quickly than he ever could have hoped to believe, he'd found himself again; he became more than just the doctor who watched lives slip pointlessly through his fingers. Together they had saved people. Found justice for the wronged. Solved numerous cold-cases for Scotland Yard. He'd shared everything with Sherlock, sometimes whether he wanted to or not. And maybe he had helped Sherlock too. Calmed the beast, so to speak. Either way, the man—the  _incredible_  man now lying dead at his feet—was the other half of himself. And he'd be damned if anything took him away with a flick of its hand.

"You give him back to me," he ordered, his voice cold. "You give him back, or I swear to God I will tear you apart with my bare hands."

Vara's lip trembled. She looked down at Sherlock. He looked like a younger version of himself that was simply asleep. She cupped his cheek and ran her thumb over his lips. Then she looked up at John, tears still streaming down her face.

"If I can do this," her voice was ragged, halting, "I … I want you to tell him I'm s-sorry. If I don't make it. Will you d-do that for me?"

John frowned, but before he could answer, Vara began to glow—slowly at first, but then the light built upon itself, faster and faster. John threw his hand up to shield his eyes even as he fell back. Vara's own eyes went from shadows to burning rainbows, a kaleidoscope so bright they flung colors on the dark stone walls. Her lips were rubies; her skin a pale golden sun. When he thought he couldn't look anymore, she started to pulse, barely perceptible at first, then ever more powerfully, and then he saw her heart, the light concentrating and bursting with every beat.

Vara gazed at Sherlock, her eyes lingering over his restful face, colors dancing over his skin. John's heart lurched; he knew then that she loved the man. She had loved Sherlock enough to burn like the sun. Then she looked up at John, and he knew that, in that moment at least, she loved him, too. She smiled sadly. Then she laid one hand on Sherlock's head, the other over his heart, and she leaned down to place a soft kiss on his lips.

Suddenly light poured out of her in a beam of pure energy, connecting her heart to his, her mouth to his mouth. The light filled Sherlock until he glowed as brightly as she did, pulsing with energy. John saw the light over Sherlock's heart begin to pulse on its own, slowly at first, then stronger and stronger.

Vara's light faded as Sherlock's grew. He seemed to absorb it, suck it into himself as his body bowed upward, lips never leaving hers. He drew in her light and made it his until only he shone.

Vara fell back as the last light left her. A bright star fell between their mouths as Sherlock took all that she had to give.

Then they lay still, Vara a dark heap and Sherlock a fading sun that burned John's eyes, making him blink blindly in the increasing darkness.

Finally John reached out a trembling hand.

"Sherlock," he whispered.

Nothing. He shook Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's head lolled to the side, his eyes open and vacant. Heart pounding, John moved himself close to Sherlock's side to take his friend's pulse.

Nothing.

John put his hand over Sherlock's mouth to feel for any breath.

Nothing.

A tight cry of panic escaped his lips as he leaned down, his ear to Sherlock's unnaturally still chest. He sat up, raking his hands through his hair.

"Please, please, please, come on, Sherlock," John muttered as he desperately started CPR. Taking a deep lungful of the stagnant air, he tilted Sherlock's head back and blew forcefully into Sherlock's mouth, then followed with chest compressions. One. Two. Three. Four.

Ear to chest.

Nothing.

He leaned down to breathe into Sherlock's mouth again as Vara coughed roughly.

"Don't, John," she rasped. She huddled in the darkest corner of the tiny room, as far away as she could get. "Too late."

"What did you do?" John demanded, his voice thick with panic. "You were supposed to make him better!"

Vara's body shuddered violently and she cried out, obviously in pain.

Good, John thought viciously. He felt as though a raging beast were about to burst from his chest. If she hurts just a little more, maybe things would even out. He shouldn't be the only one whose entire world had just ended.

"What the fuck did you do then, huh? Pretty lights, that's it? Big fucking use that was!" He could feel hot tears spill down his cheeks as his chest heaved in fury.

"I-I gave him everything I 'ad. You have to believe me ..."

Vara lurched from her dark corner. A stranger had taken her place.

John jerked back in surprise. Vara's mouth, once lush and red, now cracked and thin, twisted into a rueful smile. "Do I look that bad?" she croaked, her voice so rough he could barely understand the words. Her skin was lifeless and dull. Dark freckles were scattered across her nose and bare arms. Even her hair had lost that jet-black shine, like strands of starlight, and was now simply a dry brunette, limp and plain. Most startling, though, were her eyes. They were brown and utterly human.

"Shit," John exhaled. "Vara …"

She closed her dull eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. "Should'a worked," she whispered.

"Well, it didn't." John's fleeting moment of pity was fading fast. "Now he's d-" John broke off, unable to complete the word. "This is  _your_  fault."

Lips trembling, Vara nodded. Her hair spilled over her face like sticky ropes.

John's hands tightened on Sherlock's white dress shirt. Sherlock would be angry that John was messing up his neat clothes. He'd raise his eyebrows and, with that obnoxious, condescending look in his eyes, ask why John was getting all worked up.

A tear fell between John's fists.

Sherlock wouldn't like that at all.

Then John felt it. A flutter under his hands.

And suddenly Sherlock's eyes flew open, his chest heaving, mouth gasping for air. John whooped in relief, both hands covering his own mouth immediately in astonishment.

Sherlock's face twisted in pain or ecstasy, John couldn't tell which, and he curled himself into a tight ball, his arms wrapping around his knees.

"Oh, good Lord, Sherlock!" John's voice was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock slowly relaxed and lay back, his eyes barely open, but his breathing steady. John saw that his friend not only looked better—he looked  _amazing_.

John frowned and leaned forward. The lines that had given Sherlock's face such character were gone, as were his freckles. And the little mole he had over his left eyebrow. Even the scar on his lip was gone. His skin was flawless and glowed like … like Vara's.

John looked to her in a panic.

She, in turn, looked from John to Sherlock, who still gazed at the ceiling unaware. John saw a glimmer of that fierce burning love still within her as her eyes rested on Sherlock. She smiled tremulously and pushed her hair from her eyes.

"I saved 'im," Vara sighed.

Before John could ask how, Sherlock moaned and covered his eyes with his palms.

"It'll be hard," admitted Vara. "But he'll learn. Might even forgive me one day …"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and, with his hands still over his eyes, said slowly and carefully: "What have you done to me?"

Her lip trembled and she reached to him, not quite daring to touch. "I couldn't let you die. I couldn't lose both of you. John never would have forgiven me. I'm sorry. I'm so, so s-sorry." Tears pooled and fell from her perfectly ordinary eyes as she looked at him. "P-please forgive me, I 'ad to."

Sherlock dropped his arms and John got the first good look at his eyes. Before, John could barely notice the difference that Vara saw in them, the variation of color that differentiated one from the other, but he could clearly see it now. Sherlock's eyes burned with blues, greens, and golds—not darkly, like hers had, but glowing bright and breathtaking.

Sherlock turned those stunning eyes on Vara, and she gasped.

What had once been a good-looking man, even John had to admit, was now someone so devoid of flaw that he was … inhuman.


	19. Chapter 19

The floor trembled as Sherlock stood, his body moving with liquid grace. He straightened his tie and pulled his leather jacket into place. A fine dust settled on his shoulders and he huffed in annoyance.

"I am very irritated with you, Vara," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

She coughed, her lungs rattling wetly in her chest.

 _Ah_ , she thought,  _that can't be healthy_.

John frowned in concern and started towards her, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"I know you are," she replied to Sherlock. She turned her eyes down. It was hard to see him changed like this. "What's done is done though. You're strong," she said, "and you'll get stronger fast. Smart as you are."

She risked a glance up and flinched at the fury in his eyes. The movement set off another coughing fit and she cursed herself silently for her newfound human frailty. The entire situation was sickening. Her revolting dress, the stink of the air, the stink of herself. She plucked at the edge of her skirt and chipped off a gob of something stuck to the hem.  _Oh, gross_.

He curled his lip in disgust and started pacing around the tiny room. Three steps, turn, three steps, repeat. Each footfall vibrated the walls of their chamber. Vara could imagine tiny fissures spiraling up through the earth under London. Not good.

John seemed oblivious to Sherlock's man-made earthquake. He wiped tears from his cheeks and smiled brightly.

"I'm sorry," John said, "I know I should be upset at all this but, sod that. You're alive, Sherlock. I just. Vara, can… What did you-"

"Oh, stop gibbering, John," Sherlock snapped. He stopped pacing and pointed at Vara. "Explain," he said.

Vara moaned as she sat up straighter. Every muscle ached. The pain from a beating, starvation, or freezing, was familiar. This was the bone deep ache of humanity. Raw and bleeding.

 _Thank God I won't have to put up with it for long_ , she thought.

"If I told you," she said, "that it was the power of love, would you believe me?"

Another tiny tremor shuddered through the room. A cloud of dust drifted down from the stone ceiling.

"No," Sherlock growled.

"Right. Well. You were dead. And now you're not dead. Thought you'd be at least a little happy about that."

"I am," John piped up.

Sherlock lifted his chin and stared down his nose at Vara. "Oh, I understand. You have made me all better, is that it? A great selfless act? Don't for an instant attempt to insult my intelligence with that drivel. You planned this didn't you? Foist your curse onto me so you can be human again, is that it?"

Vara rubbed her arms with her hands. The temperature was steadily dropping in the room the angrier Sherlock got. She knew the signs. An angry, uncontrolled 'nipper would draw the heat from the small space faster than an arctic blast. He really was a natural.

"You need to calm down," she said. "You'll either freeze us or bring London down on our heads."

John looked between them, his face perplexed. "Well," he said, "come on now. I mean, this is just temporary, right? You gave him a little of your go-juice and then he'll mellow out and we'll get you back in the sun to bring you back to the way you were."

Sherlock stopped pacing and braced his hands on the wall. His head dropped.

"Is this permanent, Vara?" Sherlock asked. His voice sounded defeated.

"Yes," she said, quietly.

"Why me? And don't say it was because I was dead and that you loved me."

"I do love you, even if you don't believe me. Mostly it's because I finally found someone worthy of it."

Sherlock laughed ruefully and straightened. "No," he said, "John might be worthy, but I'm certainly not."

"You're a better man than you think you are."

"Smart does not mean better," Sherlock spat.

"Listen, I know you have it all built up in your head that you're some kind of sociopathic monster, but I  _know_  monsters, Sherlock, and you aren't one. You're smart, yes, huge understatement, but you're more than that. You're a good man. Or, you could be if you'd put your bleeding mind to it."

Sherlock pointed a shaking finger at John. " _That_  is a good man! You can delude yourself into thinking I'm some sort of undercover saint if you'd like, but you've made a mistake choosing me."

Vara shook her head and grimaced. "It's like talking to a wall with you."

"Okay, okay," John said as he climbed to his feet. "Can we deal with this after we get out of the terrifying dark hole, please?"

Rubbing his hands over his face, Sherlock nodded. "How do we get out of here, Vara?"

"The way you came in."

"No back door?"

"None that I know of."

"Great. Well, this has all gone completely to shit."

Vara couldn't help but smile. He did have a way with words.

"I do know Ubar isn't outside," Vara said, "because if he had been, he would've seen the light show. This door is crap though. I'm sure the two of you could just break it down. They haven't kept a prisoner down here for ages. Haven't needed to."

"Why's that?" John asked.

"You've seen. Rihat just-" Vara made a slashing motion across her throat.

"Yeah, got it."

John walked to Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock met his eyes and they were quiet for a long moment. Oh, how Vara envied them. Their bond was bone deep. Not for the first time, she felt like an intruder into that harmony.

"Um, you two should hurry and get out of here." Vara mustered up a smile for them.

"Well, you're coming with us," John said. He seemed a little contrite after his massive blow-up. Of course, he had gotten what he wanted.

"John," Sherlock said softly. He frowned at Vara, his glowing eyes taking her in, seeing more than John could. What he saw must have bothered him. "Vara, can you walk?"

A spasm rocked her body, arms twitching around her knees. She could feel dried blood flake from her face in a disgusting sheet. Shame twisted into hard knot in her chest.

"No, I can't," she said. "And I refuse to slow you two down. You have one hundred seventy-seven steps to climb and an army to get through. And Ubar. And Rihat. And Enusat. I won't be the one to get you killed again."

"Enusat?" John asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Who's that, another one? How many are here?"

"Someone had to belong to that other set of footprints back at the cottage," Sherlock said. "It doesn't matter either way. You're coming, Vara, get over it."

With that, Sherlock heaved one powerful kick at the door and wood splintered as loudly as a gunshot. The door swung back on broken hinges.

"Holy shit!" John exclaimed. He waved a hand in front of his face to clear the sudden cloud of dust.

Sherlock stepped back, stunned. "Right. Well. I, uh. I'll just have to be careful then, apparently."

Vara chuckled, even if it made her head feel as though it were about to split open. Vision spinning, she swallowed hard. The urge to vomit made her mouth water. This was more than just the human condition. Something twisted low in her abdomen. Something vital shutting off. The pain was blinding, but she refused to show how much she hurt. John would be heartbroken, Sherlock infuriated. And both would put the blame on themselves for her decision. She knew them well enough to know that.

Vara smiled a little to herself despite the pain. One more step. So close now.

"Sherlock," she said, her voice quavering, "come 'ere."

She held out a hand. Sherlock came to her and knelt to take her hand. His eyes were a little wild around the edges.

"Listen to me, I haven't got much time. No, now hush! I am over three thousand years old. Saying I'm a grown ass woman is an understatement. When I tell you I'm not coming along, I mean it."

Vara squeezed Sherlock's hand. He opened his mouth to interrupt and she held up her free hand. "If there's one last thing I can do for you," she said, "it's this. I will not slow you down. I will not stop you. I wish I could teach you, but I'm not going to be able to do that. The others. The ones who are asleep. Find them. I hate it more than words can say, but until then, you're going to have to learn on your own. There's no one I trust more than you to do that. And y-you're going to be amazing…"

John came over to them and placed a hand on Vara's forehead. It felt icy to her, but she already knew she was burning up. It was getting harder to breathe. The nauseating, familiar air didn't help. She'd huffed that rank crap for eons. Her first smell of it after waking up at Rihat's feet had sent her into a panic. The stink of the air, the glint of light on the edge of Ubar's blade as it swept around her neck, John's shirt splattered with her blood and the taste of him still on her lips from their first and only kiss.

"Vara," Sherlock said, his voice sounding as if it were coming from miles away. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head. Tiny explosions went off behind her eyelids. Blackness began to fill the edges of her eyesight.

"Go," She croaked. Her little fists pushed at them, urging them to the door. "I can't be fixed. I want this. I want it to e-end. Now bugger off and let me die in peace!"

Her voice sounded vicious in her ears, but apparently she wasn't fooling anyone.

A gentle hand brushed the hair from her face. It was a blur. Her vision was failing altogether. The pain faded. One of them lowered her to the floor and placed their folded jacket under her head. It smelled like new leather and John. Like clean skin and open air. Like a cool breeze. In her mind she saw her friends soaring through the sky, great black wings catching the updrafts as they danced in the heavens for her, each beat of their wings sending leaves and grass flying around her head. Her arms spread open to them, laughter on her lips.

Vara smiled and she was gone.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock could feel tingling start in his fingertips as a tinny buzz filled his ears. A tear burned a path down his cheek. He looked up at John, his sight blurred. John's face was blank as he stared down at Vara's body. Sherlock couldn't see John's anguish, but he could feel it as a vibration on his skin: a note scraped flat across a violin string. The buzzing increased.

Something deep in the earth cracked. The thunderous sound barely registered—John too deeply in shock, Sherlock's mind burning like a supernova.

Sherlock lifted his hands from Vara's face and stood. His breath huffed out in a cloud of condensation. The temperature had plummeted.

The sound of pounding boots echoed outside the cell.

Two people, one limping.

Sherlock turned his head to watch as Ubar lurched into view. At any other time, he might have laughed at the look on Ubar's face: dark, sunken eyes opened wide in shock, his mouth slack. But at this moment, Sherlock—cold, clinical, on fire—simply made a mental note.

As Ubar's mouth worked, impotently attempting to stammer, John silently handed Sherlock a single nitrogen syringe. Sherlock met his friend's eyes. He was glad to see he wasn't the only one who had shot past reason and was now walking the path of insanity.

Sherlock grasped the syringe by its needle and flicked it at Ubar with a casual flip of his wrist. The point plunged into the crippled beast's eye, discharging on contact. Sadly, Ubar didn't even have time to scream before dropping to the floor. Shame, that.

"They should've disarmed us," John said, his voice flat.

"Their mistake. Shall we?"

Sherlock led the way out the door, stepping over Ubar's body as if it were no more than a misplaced doorstop. He looked around. This part of the cave was new to him. Of course, he had been dead the last time he'd been through here.

It was slightly more well-lit than the main chamber, but only because it was smaller, making the few torches dotting the walls more effective. The ceiling was high, but he could make out jagged stalactites blackened by centuries of smoke. And he could smell the 'nipper hiding in the shadows.

He closed his eyes for a moment and heard three heartbeats: John's, his, and the panicked staccato of what had to be Enusat's.

There wasn't time to marvel at these new abilities. He needed to use whatever tools were at his disposal to get John and himself out of the cavern alive.

John drew his cryo gun and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"I know you're here." Sherlock's voice echoed. "You have two options. Run and live, or get in my way and see what I come up with."

A cowled head emerged from a hidden crevice in the wall. Like the others, Enusat wore rough spun linen. His was dirty, though: stained with soot and Vara's blood. Somehow Sherlock knew the blood was hers. For a moment he thought maybe it was the smell, but in a split-second the realization flooded all the way through to his bones that what he actually perceived was an indescribable energy or force, as if a part of himself was smeared in red swaths across the slumped, creeping figure.

Enusat's face was blotched and mottled, his skin a patchwork of dusky Babylonian tones and porcelain white, like Vara's and Sherlock's. Sherlock felt sick looking at him. Broken teeth peeked out over plump lips as he shuffled towards them with surprising grace. He was small and light on his feet. This was the one who had attacked John in the cottage. If Enusat turned his back to run, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be able to resist the urge to go after the bastard and beat him to a pulp.

This creature seemed different from the others. It opened its mouth. Sherlock thought it was going to reply, but Enusat's tongue had been removed. The broken teeth, this disfigurement—these injuries had to have occurred  _before_  Rihat had turned him. Before he'd had the ability to heal himself. Interesting. A history of violence before Enusat had become an unstoppable killing machine.

"Cat got your tongue?" Sherlock asked, unable to resist.

With a garbled roar, Enusat ran forward so fast Sherlock was barely able to see him move. Sherlock's hand darted out, snatching Enusat by the throat. His fingers dug into the 'nipper's hard flesh, lifting him from his feet. Pivoting, Sherlock slammed Enusat into the stone wall of the cave. Enusat tried to scream, but Sherlock tightened his grip. Clawed fingers scratched at Sherlock's hand, but every mark made healed almost instantly. Sherlock could barely feel the wounds, and the healing was painless. The 'nipper's weight was nothing to him. Quick mental calculations suggested that he could lift many times his own weight before feeling the effects. He noted this in less than a second, his mind sharper than it had ever been. Could be worse, he supposed as he continued squeezing. Enhanced mental capacity wasn't anything to sneeze at.

"John," Sherlock said calmly, "would you like the honor?"

"My pleasure," John snarled. He lifted the cryo gun and jammed the needle into Enusat's temple with clinical precision. Enusat twitched once and fell slack.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and started to push. Slowly, very slowly, the stone behind Enusat began to warp. He didn't know how he was doing it. He suspected that if he thought too closely on it, he wouldn't be able to at all. All he knew was that he wanted the monster gone, and this was efficient.

Soundlessly, Enusat sank into the stone. Sherlock pushed until his hand sank after the body, ensuring that every inch of Enusat was covered.

Pulling his hand free, Sherlock stepped back. No sign of the 'nipper remained. Enusat would be encased in darkness forever, or whenever the stone eroded, whichever came first.

"Jesus," John breathed. "That's handy."

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his hair, making the curls stand in a crazed black halo around his head.

"Yeah, we're not done yet," Sherlock said. He looked to his friend. John still held the cryo gun at the ready, his eyes darting around the cave in preparation for the next attack. His white dress shirt was rumpled, burgundy tie askew. Sherlock walked to him and straightened his tie. John merely looked at him, his eyes cold, empty.

"You gonna be ok?" Sherlock asked. A feeling washed over him, more vibrations coming from John that danced along his skin like a sandblaster. Misery. Fury. Loss.

"I'm fine," John said. He darted a quick look into the dark cell. "Should we, uh ... should we just leave h-her there?"

Sherlock refused to look. He didn't need to. The image of Vara lying dead, her transformed body covered in blood, the livid red scar slashed across her throat—he would never forget it. But he also remembered her smile and the sense of peace that had come with her passing. It's what she had wanted. One day he would probably want the same.

"I don't like it either, but I don't think she'd care, John."

John sighed and nodded, keeping his head down. Then he straightened himself and rolled up his sleeves. "You're probably right. I want to get out of here, Sherlock."

"I know. I'll try to hurry."

Sherlock passed a hand over John's shoulder and led the way out of the small cavern.

* * *

Thankfully, the walk back to the main chamber was a straight shot. John said he couldn't recall the way they had come, and Sherlock certainly didn't know. A little part of Sherlock judged Rihat for his lax security. They had had a grand opportunity to create a labyrinth of tunnels to confuse and mislead enemies. What a waste. Obviously the result of crippling hubris. Adding to that the fact that neither John nor he had been disarmed led Sherlock to conclude that Rihat truly thought himself indestructible. Untouchable. Sherlock vowed that even if it was the last thing he did, he would shatter that illusion— with his bare hands, if need be.

Wind whistled through the narrow passage before them. He could smell Rihat now, a smell like moldering parchment and the dry crackle of a shed snake's skin. The others were nothing like that, but then Rihat was the eldest of their brood. God only knew what experiments he had done on himself both before and after his transformation. It seemed like the others had only wanted to continue existing, but not Rihat. Contentment was not in his nature. In that alone, Sherlock could sympathize.

Sherlock held a finger to his lips and nodded to the passage. The light was horrible, one torch set twenty paces back. But they could use that to their advantage.

"Stick to the walls," Sherlock whispered, "and follow—"

"I know you are there, Vara." Rihat's voice boomed from the massive cave. "I can feel you. Come out, and I will think on accepting your apology."

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Vara?" he mouthed.

Sherlock shrugged. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that when Vara transferred her abilities to Sherlock, a touch of herself came with them. He too could feel the electric pulse of life buzzing across his skin. John felt different than Rihat and the others. There wasn't time to analyze any of it now, but he mentally filed all his observations away for future examination. Either way, if ever there was an opportunity to throw Rihat off his game, this was it, and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to let that pass him by.

Grinning, Sherlock winked at John, stood tall, and strode into the chamber.

"You might want to update your security system, old chap." Sherlock's voice echoed in a pleasantly dramatic fashion. "Seems you have some lapses in communication."

Darkness surrounded them as Sherlock walked to the throne. The sudden sense of space made his ears want to pop.

"Really, now," Sherlock continued, "a few cameras. Walkie-talkies. Hell, even a string with a cup on either end would be better than what you've got going on."

Warmth from the one lit torch at the foot of Rihat's throne caressed Sherlock's face as he drew closer. "Seems to me you're running this entire operation on assumptions. Rather naïve for someone your age, don't you think?"

Rihat's fingers curled into claws over the armrests of his throne.

"Impossible," Rihat hissed.

"Ah, there you go, assuming again. Though apparently the situation is unique, so I will forgive your ignorance."

Rihat stood, his frail, skeletal body trembling beneath his threadbare robe. Thankfully, his hood was raised. Any moment spared from seeing that revolting image was a blessing.

"What have you done to her?" Rihat demanded.

"Me? Nothing. I was a bit dead at the time. Someone killed me. No, it was all her."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and stood calmly in front of Rihat. He checked John's location and was pleased to see that he was hanging back. John was his last remaining vulnerability; Sherlock didn't want Rihat to get any bright ideas about doing to John what Rihat had done to him. He didn't think he could pull off Vara's swan song quite yet to save John if something happened. But he needed to infuriate Rihat. The creature had been sitting on a throne for eons, hearing nothing but praise and relishing in his dominion. God only knew how long it had been since anyone had spoken to him in anything less than reverence or terror. Sherlock's only chance to put him down would be if Rihat lost all sense of control and physically attacked Sherlock. Sherlock knew he was outmatched in the supernatural-powers department, yet it felt as though he had a nuclear reactor in his chest. He wasn't going down without a fight.

"You gave her the key to what she wanted most of all," Sherlock went on, driving the knife deeper. "She gave her gift to me so that I could live. Bravo. She died smiling, if that's any comfort."

Rihat's bowed his head. Silence filled the cavern. Somewhere deep in the darkness, water dripped with lonely echoes.

"Dead …" Rihat muttered.

"You're welcome to go look yourself. There's a rather large lump named Ubar lying before the door, but it's no matter."

Rihat sank back onto his throne. Sherlock began to feel a little worried. Rihat wasn't behaving as Sherlock had expected him to. He remembered seeing Rihat start to move his hand in Sherlock's direction before the lights had all gone out. Sherlock presumed that that had been Rihat's killing blow. That's all it would take for Rihat to kill John. And he was certain Rihat had invented new ways to torture 'nippers that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like a spa holiday.

"How was this done?" Rihat whispered.

"Again, I was dead. Can't say. Apparently it was quite impressive. I hope it was worth it." Sherlock's voice trembled almost imperceptibly. He knew he shouldn't let his own emotions show, but he couldn't help it. "I hope to God it was worth it: you killing me only to hurt her, to take what little joy she had found and hurl it at her as punishment. No wonder she wanted to die. No wonder she hated her life. And hated you."

Rihat raised his head and threw back his cowl. His eyes burned, tears shimmering in their black depths. The dark roadmap of veins crisscrossing his face now pulsed with every heartbeat. His thin, white lips were stretched tight across his teeth. Sherlock's new and improved senses reeled at the loathing that crashed in waves towards him. He knew, too, that Rihat could feel his own fury, his disgust. Sherlock could never have given Vara the love she had wanted—had deserved. But he could mourn her loss. He could pity her for her centuries of pain, and admire her spirit despite it all. That she had been capable of loving him at all was miraculous. He didn't feel worthy. But he could avenge her. If there was nothing else, there was that.

"You pathetic maggot," Sherlock spat. "You didn't deserve to breathe the same air as she. You never did. And you never will. She died to escape you. And she was able to because she loved me."

Flying out of his throne, Rihat slammed into Sherlock, his face twisted grotesquely, jaw open wide as he screamed. His talons raked at Sherlock's neck, trying desperately to encircle it and choke the life out of his adversary. Madness made him forget that now, the effort would be futile.

That's what Sherlock needed, though. Madness.

It was his only chance.

Sherlock's back hit the stone floor hard enough to make the breath wheeze out of his lungs as Rihat's bony body collapsed onto him. He could hear John coming forward, heart rate panicked. Huge mistake. He'd have to be fast before John did something stupid like trying to save him.

Locking his hands around Rihat's back, Sherlock flipped them, putting himself on top of the monster. Rihat shrieked, the sound as piercing as that of a wounded rabbit. Sherlock planted his knees on either side of Rihat's hips and wrapped his hands around Rihat's neck, thumbs digging hard into his windpipe.

Rihat's black eyes bulged and his screams cut off as Sherlock squeezed tighter and tighter. The air around them began to hum as Rihat's fury turned to panic. His skeletal hands clawed at the tight grip Sherlock had on his throat. Ice began to form where Rihat touched him, Sherlock's newly flawless skin darkening into patches of frostbite. Rihat was trying to draw away Sherlock's heat.

Now there's an idea, Sherlock thought, calmer than he had a right to be under the circumstances.

He closed his eyes and time, for a moment, stood still.

Sherlock could feel his own heat, his own energy being slowly drawn out of his body where Rihat touched him.

The mechanics were simple, it seemed. Like taking a deep breath or sucking a milkshake through a straw.

You had to want the thing, and then—take it.

Sherlock wanted Rihat to die. He needed to drain Rihat's energy to do that.

So… he took it.

John advanced another step; his heart beat once, heavily, slowly, like a timpani in Sherlock's ears.

A feeling of peace descended over Sherlock in a warm wave. Heat built in the pit of his stomach and then his hands, hotter and hotter as the warmth leached out of Rihat into Sherlock. It felt like nothing he'd ever experienced in his life. Better than unraveling a crime, better than the first drag of a cigarette after abstaining, better than any drug. He soaked up Rihat's heat like a sponge, and kept taking and taking.

Rihat's breath hissed out from his lips. Sherlock opened his eyes. Black, frostbitten flesh spread below his hands, slowly devouring Rihat's translucent skin. The pain must've been excruciating, but Rihat laughed in gasps as he froze.

"Y-you think you've won, little man?" Rihat choked. "Should I die, the world will fall!"

"Liar," Sherlock growled.

"My will holds fast the doors of hell. My a-armies unleashed will raze the earth. You fool!"

Sherlock squeezed tighter, seeking to siphon the last of Rihat's warmth, desperately trying to stop the lies.

"Will you be he?" Rihat whispered, his voice failing. "I stood at Nero's shoulder as he watched Rome burn. Will you be the one to set the whole world ablaze?"

His coal-black eyes flicked to John, and Sherlock felt a shiver of terror shoot through his body.

"In a hundred years' time when he is long dead at your feet and the world lies barren and cold, without love or hope, nothing left, will you set fire to the world just to watch it burn? Will you? W-will … "

Rihat's voice tapered off as the darkness consumed his flesh, until he lay still and frozen.

But not dead.

No. There was a spark. A tiny flicker of potential. He could awaken again with enough time.

Sherlock remembered the way Vara had died at his feet, in pain and covered in blood.

Fingers tightening as Rihat's black, frostbitten skin flaked away, Sherlock honed in on the source. It was about energy, and what  _was_  energy but accelerating mass? If only he could find…

Yes… He could feel it like a frisson across his skin. There, deep in each cell, in every atom, the most minute of vibrations.

Energy.

And it was his.

John's heart thudded again.

Rihat shattered into a cloud of fine, white dust.


	21. Chapter 21

 

"Jesus Christ," John sighed. The cryo gun dropped from his limp fingers and clattered loudly on the floor. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to him.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked. His fingers trailed through the powder that had been Rihat. It stirred a little as he leaned back on his knees. It was the same color as Sherlock's skin. Pure white.

"Am I? Y-you just… Are  _you_  all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I uh..." Sherlock lifted his hands, powdered Rihat sifting through his fingers. "I'm okay."

"You did just vaporize a man."

Sherlock grinned. "It's true," he agreed. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

John chuckled despite himself, the sound echoing off the walls. On the second day they had met, John had been forced to shoot a psychopath that had nearly convinced Sherlock to kill himself in a test of wills. Of course, Sherlock had insisted that he had the situation under control, but John had refused to take the chance. Even having just met him, John would have done nearly anything to keep Sherlock safe. And he had. Afterward, when Sherlock had deduced that John had been the shooter, he had been concerned for John's mental well-being, and John had reassured him with those words: the man he'd killed wasn't a nice man, so it was all right. Of course, the serial killer he'd shot had been an angel compared to Rihat. Nonetheless, taking a life was hard business. He would have spared Sherlock from it if he could have.

"Okay." John strode towards Sherlock. "Let's get you up and get the hell out of here."

John lifted Sherlock to his feet. He wobbled, and John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock was trembling, his hand unsteady on John's shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked quietly.

"Not yet. I don't even kn—" Sherlock broke off. He tilted his head. "Do you hear that?"

"What? No, what is it?"

Sherlock looked over John's head to the back of the cavern behind Rihat's throne.

"Howling," Sherlock muttered. "Screams."

The hairs rose on the back of John's neck. He couldn't hear it, but he could feel it. Slightly out of his range, like a dog whistle.

"You have got to be kidding me," John sighed.

A rank breeze stirred from the darkness, making Rihat's remains swirl in eddies until every trace disappeared.

"If there's air," Sherlock said, "then there's a way out. Question is, who opened the door?"

"Vara said that there wasn't a back exit."

"To her knowledge. Since he didn't need light for energy, Rihat kept his people in darkness to keep them weak and himself strong. You think he'd divulge all of his secrets to them? Not a chance. But there's no way… He must've been lying."

"What are you talking about?"

"Right. Nothing for it." Sherlock straightened and pulled away from John, seeming to catch a second wind. "We must investigate."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Or not. You said you could hear screams and-and  _howling_?"

"Yes, and the air smells fresh underneath the rot. We need a way out, and this is a golden opportunity."

"Absolutely nothing about this night has said to me, 'golden opportunity.'"

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a half-smile. He turned and strode into the dark.

"Damn it." John snatched a torch from the wall and jogged to catch up. "If you get killed again, I'm going to be very cross."

"Oh, don't worry about me. Just keep up and don't do anything stupid."

"Glad to be appreciated," John muttered. Torchlight glimmered wetly from the lumpy walls as they narrowed around the two men. John wrinkled his nose as the mixed smell of damp mold and wet dog swirled around them. He coughed and raised his free hand to cover his nose.

"Jesus, what's that stench?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't reply, but his shoulders visibly tightened.

In no more than fifty feet, the cavern walls sloped sharply inward. There appeared to be nothing but sheer rock before them.

John shuddered in revulsion as Sherlock ran his hands over the wet stone.

"Should you be touching that? It looks like a petri dish."

"Nothing can hurt me now. I told you not to worry," Sherlock replied, his face inches from the wall. He continued to mutter nonsense to himself before exclaiming, "Ah! Here it is. John, come close with the light."

John came forward but couldn't see what Sherlock was so excited about. His torch suddenly sputtered and he could feel the breeze blow through a hidden crevice. As he moved the light, a cunningly disguised crack revealed itself.

"Well, I'll be damned," John said. "That's the way out, then? But it's too narrow for us."

"Ye of little faith," Sherlock replied, grinning. "Look, there are traces of where this has been moved before." Bracing his hands on the lip of the crack, Sherlock started to pull hard on the rock. For a moment nothing happened. Then, grunting, Sherlock gave a huge tug and the rock shifted noisily, opening in tiny degrees. It was just wide enough for them to squeeze through. Sherlock stepped back, his face red from effort.

"There we are," Sherlock wheezed.

"And where would that be?" John said slowly as he leaned into the opening. The smell hit him like a hammer. "Good God! Seriously, what is that?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and snatched the torch from John. "Get out of the way and I'll tell you." Stepping past John, Sherlock levered his upper body through the opening.

John craned his neck to see past Sherlock's shoulder. "Anything? Bog of eternal stench?"

"Uh. Not exactly. Keep close to the wall and follow my steps. There is a very narrow chance that I have made a catastrophic mistake," Sherlock answered, his voice echoing ominously.

"You what?" John asked, rather louder than he expected as he squeezed in after his companion. Sherlock's hand immediately came out to push John back against the wall. His shoulders scraped painfully on the uneven rock, and he frowned at Sherlock in irritation.

"Look," Sherlock whispered. Holding the torch out to light the way, John saw… nothing.

Inky blackness surrounded them. A sense of emptiness made him break into a cold sweat. Looking down, he saw that they stood on a narrow ledge, no more than two feet wide.

Once John had taken a date to the London Eye where he had quickly discovered that his lifelong mild discomfort with heights had, since the war, developed into a full-blown phobia. That the woman had been an adventure-seeking American with her nose pressed to the glass didn't helped matters. He hadn't panicked, but he had sworn to himself to avoid situations like that ever after, if at all possible.

Now here he was. Clinging to the side of what could be a bottomless chasm. Great.

"Sherlock," John muttered, "I don't think I can do this."

"Of course you can. Here, grab my sleeve and hold on. It looks like the wall curves around. I think this is a large bowl. All we have to do is get to the other side. Are you all right?"

John reached out blindly and got a tight grip on Sherlock's leather jacket.

"Just go," he said through gritted teeth, feeling like an absolute fool.

Sherlock took a shuffling step to his right. The ledge was uneven and pitted. A rock slipped under John's shoe and skittered off the rim, bouncing loudly. John gasped and tried to press his back through the wall and out the other side.

"Ah," Sherlock said calmly, "sounds like about a hundred meters deep and, yes, definitely a bowl shape. Slanted sides, that's why it's so loud."

Sherlock continued around the edge, dragging John reluctantly beside him.

"I don't understand why this is bothering you so much," Sherlock said.

"Shut up," John whimpered.

"Honestly, of all the things we've gone through tonight, this is what's upsetting you? You're perfectly safe. If it is a round shape, which I'm certain it is, then you'd just slide down to the bottom. The worst that would happen is a broken limb and you might agitate your concussion. Oh, by the way, we need to check your pupils when we get into some decent light. Are you having any cognitive issues? Is that why you're acting like an idiot?"

"I hate you."

"Could be brain damage then. I wrote an essay once about the long-term effects of a rear-administered blow to the head. I found that … "

John sighed and focused on his feet. He had long ago developed a talent he called Blocking Out Sherlock To Keep From Killing Him. Blissfully, Sherlock's voice faded into the distance. One careful step after another, inch by inch. It would have to end eventually, one way or another.

Ten minutes or ten years later—John couldn't be sure—Sherlock stopped.

"Oh, thank Jesus," John breathed. His knees wobbled. "Where's the exit?"

"Well," Sherlock said hesitantly, "good news: I can see it. Bad news: it's directly below us, and we will have to swing over the ledge."

"Nope."

"I'll go first so I can help you down. Don't worry, I have the situation completely under control."

"You said you'd made a horrible mistake," John squeaked in annoyance.

"Yes, I have, but not about this."

Sherlock set the torch down and eased himself over the ledge, his long, pale fingers gripping the stone tightly. He dangled from the edge for a moment, causing John to have several mini-heart attacks, then swung once and landed on solid ground with a grunt.

"Okay?" John asked, his voice trembling.

"Yes, of course. Now, hand me the torch and we'll get you sorted."

John took a long deep breath, his heart pounding somewhere around his chin, and bent carefully over. He snatched up the torch and tossed it down before going to his knees and easing his lower body over the side. He felt Sherlock's arms come around his waist. With a strangled curse, John let go. Effortlessly, Sherlock swung him around and placed John on the outcropping next to him.

"Please don't vomit," Sherlock said. "Now we just follow this path up and we'll be out."

Hands on his knees, John nodded. He felt so light-headed he worried for a moment he'd faint. He wasn't sure if it was relief or the head wound. Sherlock reached out and patted his shoulder in an attempt at comfort before dashing up the path, taking the light with him. John sighed and straightened to follow.

Looking around for the first time, John saw the tunnel. More of the same bedrock as before, but the walls were tight, barely six-foot across, and streaked with blood and worse. Even overhead there was evidence of violent exit, as if a giant badger had been dragged out backwards, clawing along the way.

"The air is getting fresher. Can you tell?" Sherlock asked, his voice excited.

John grunted and kept walking. "Any idea how far we've left to go?"

Sherlock stopped suddenly and John nearly bumped into his back. Tilting his head, Sherlock seemed to be listening for something. He reached out a hand and knocked one knuckle against the wall. Once. Twice.

"Probably," Sherlock said slowly, "a half-mile."

"And you can tell that how?" John asked.

"Calibrating the echo."

"Uh," John said, his eyes squinting, "what echo?"

"Just trust me."

Thankfully, he was right. The two of them spilled out of a grate some distance from Buckingham, dirty, bruised, and blood-stained. John collapsed to the ground and slowly laid back, his arms spread wide. He couldn't see the night sky in London—too much ambient light—but he knew that up there somewhere, stars shone brightly. He also knew that on top of a fear of heights, he now would rather set himself on fire than go back into another cave.

Sherlock flopped down beside him, long legs akimbo. He rested his chin on his chest. "John, I'm so sorry about Vara."

John sighed, his heart aching. "Yeah, me too, mate," he said. "She seemed happy though, in the end. I think that was what she wanted."

Sherlock hummed and fell back to lie next to John.

"You going to tell me about this huge mistake you've made, then?" John prompted.

"Might have accidentally unleashed a monster hoard onto the streets of London."

John could hear the sound of distant car horns, the rush of water from a nearby rivulet, dogs barking somewhere in the night. He was too exhausted and too wounded to even turn his head.

"Well," he said after a few minutes, "that's not good."

"Bit not good," Sherlock replied.

"How?"

"Oh. Rihat might have mentioned-"

"And when did you two have a chat?" John asked.

"When I was strangling him. Anyway, he mentioned that he had an army of creatures and that his death would release them from, what I can now deduce, was that giant pit. That was the smell. Those … things."

John heaved a sigh and ran his filthy hands over his face, smearing mud and God only knew what across his forehead.

"We need to warn people?" he asked.

"They will just panic or think we're insane. Neither is a good option," Sherlock mused. "No, I think the smartest thing we can do is get ourselves home and start sorting it out in the morning. What's done is done."

"Very pragmatic of you, Sherlock," John said.

"What can I say?" Sherlock agreed, rising to his feet, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. "Comes with being a god."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes stood at a window in the upper levels of Buckingham Palace, looking out over the artificially lit grounds. A fire crackled at his back, making the room uncomfortably warm. His tuxedo felt tight at his waist and he could see by his reflection in the glass that his face was flushed unpleasantly. Minor annoyances.

He flicked his finger over the screen of his phone, images shuffling left to right. His brother. John. The beasts.

Closing the file, Mycroft opened a link to one of many CCTV videos constantly streaming and recording for his consideration. He saw Sherlock on his knees, squeezing the life from Rihat. He paused the image before Rihat burst into non-existence. So much planning for so many years, and all for this moment. He pushed play and savored the sight of Rihat's destruction. He was not a man prone to gloating—or to any emotion, for that matter—but the thrill of victory was one of his only indulgences now that he was dieting.

The door opened and Mycroft looked up to see his assistant's calm face.

"Sir," she said, "your brother is out of the caverns, and we have his location. Would you like us to follow him?"

"No, that won't be necessary." Mycroft shook his head. "He will be heading back to 221B. He is alarmingly predictable. Place surveillance in our flat across the street from his and tell all our operatives to proceed with extreme caution if they must come in contact with Sherlock in any way."

"Yes, sir," she replied before withdrawing.

Mycroft gazed out the window for a moment before opening the video again. He rewound it and his lips tightened into a narrow, cold smile as he watched Rihat die for the thirteenth time that night.

THE END


End file.
